Wondering, Fearing, Doubting, Dreaming
by KNO3
Summary: When Bruce Wayne is framed for murder, how long can he keep his identity secret? And how long can Gotham survive without Batman? Sequel to "Deep Into That Darkness Peering," but can function as a stand-alone. Features Riddler, Scarecrow, and Mad Hatter.
1. Riddle Me This

This story is a sequel to a previous fanfiction, "Deep Into That Darkness Peering." It will make more sense if you read "Deep Into That Darkness Peering" first, but you don't have to; it can function as a stand alone.

Bonus trivia: The title of "Deep Into That Darkness Peering," by the way, comes from a line of Edgar Allan Poe's _The Raven: _"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing/ Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before." It refers to the Riddler's attempts to discern Batman's identity, is a nod to Jonathan Crane (who I somehow envision reading and enjoying Poe), and the "dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before" is echoed in the final lines of "Through the Looking Glass"- a reference to the Mad Hatter.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the DC characters, places, or referenced plots. This story was written for fun. Any profits will go to helping Alfred afford windows for the Batmobile, a less showy door for the Batcave entrance, and a decent alarm system for Wayne Manor.

* * *

A droplet of water slid down the length of pipe, hung suspended in the air for a moment, and dropped, landing with a faint _plop _in the forming puddle. A sudden thaw had come to Gotham, turning the white, fluffy snow into grey sleet and filling the streets with freezing water. Across the city, homeless drifters, professional panhandlers, and the ever-present prostitutes were suffering, their alleys and dumpsters and street corners flooded with cold, dirty slush.

The man in the green bowler hat suffered too.

He watched idly as another drop snaked its way down the rusted pipe, stretched itself out into a clear, clinging droplet, and fell. _Plop. _It certainly wasn't his most luxurious hideout, but it was his safest; and with the streets crawling with vigilant police, he'd retreated beneath old Gotham to wait and plan and think. The cold seeped through the cement walls, putting a faint shine on the pipe and brushing small clouds into the air when he breathed. He drew the heavy purple overcoat closer to him, rubbing violet-gloved hands together _in order to take advantage of the heat produced by friction as well as the heat generated as the body burns calories in order to do work (also a byproduct of the second law of thermodynamics) and thereby raise the temperature in the body's extremeties—_

"B-boss?"

Edward Nygma looked up, his eyes narrowing behind the purple domino mask.

"Why must you constantly interrupt my thought processes?" he snapped. "And yes, I am aware you have not the slightest semblance of intelligence in your useless mass of flesh you call a brain; however, you might have the decency to exercise common courtesy and not disturb me when I am thinking!"

His companion, a large, muscular individual who could have been a boxer, a bodybuilder, a professional cage fighter, or all three, shrank back and dropped his eyes humbly. He'd been with the Riddler for nearly a year and recognized when his "boss" was genuinely angry and when he just needed a lesser being to blame for whatever problem lay at hand. At the moment, it was both.

"The problem is," Riddler said, curling a gloved hand around the top of his cane, "the problem is that no one knows for sure. He's so clever, curse him, and that's the only reason… but then again, if he weren't, who would riddle me this? It could be a trap, or it might be… could he really be so foolish?"

The bodyguard watched quietly as Edward Nygma stood up and began pacing, the steady rhythm of his footsteps punctuated by the occasional _plop_ in the bucket.

"Batman… Bat-man… Bat… man… hmmm… but we've been wrong before…" the Riddler murmured. "If it weren't for that single… but surely that could be a trick… he's playing with my mind, taunting me with that… Bat…"

The pacing slowed.

"The best defense… Bruce Wayne… alliteration, perhaps?… he certainly could afford it…"

Riddler tapped his cane against pipe thoughtfully, watching the water divert down the smooth metal and slide against the polished steel ball, trapping itself between the metal surface and a gloved forefinger.

"So what we've got to do… is turn the tables on him. The best defense… the best… that's what we've got to do. That's it."

The Riddler turned to face his bodyguard, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"I have a plan."

* * *

_"...he's playing with my mind, taunting me with that... Bat..." _A corruption of Skinner's line from _Ratatouille. _No, I don't think the Riddler has seen _Ratatouille, _I'm just a chronic quoter.


	2. A Visit to Arkham

Arkham Asylum sprawled on the outskirts of Gotham, a darkening blot against the whiteness of the melting snow. A tall stone wall surrounded the asylum, heavy rolls of rusty barbed wire standing bleak and stark against the winter sky. Wound around the stiff coils of black wire, a thin, silver, near-invisible thread ran around the wall's perimeter. Everyone knew what that was. Killer Croc had almost managed to escape over the wall last month, the heavy barbed wire barely scratching his scaly hide, until he brushed up against the electric wire. They'd carried him, the Croc, back to the infirmary out cold from the massive shock. There would be no more breakouts from Arkham over the wall.

However, that did not at all deter the possible of a break-in. Robin swung himself easily between the rusted loops, carefully stepping over the lightning wire. A guard in the watchtower spotted him and pointed, shouting something unintelligible. Robin waved back cheerfully. The guard grabbed his fellow, pointing at Robin, and waved back.

With dexterity born of years as a trapeze artist, Robin walked lightly along the wall, carefully avoiding barbed and electrified wire, and climbed neatly onto the roof. The gutters of Arkham Asylum were overflowing, filled with gurgling, swishing, icy water and half-rotted dead leaves. Balancing himself carefully on the slick shingles, Robin began walking just above the gutter, keeping his eyes fixed on a stone gargoyle halfway down the length. It would be simple. Get to the statue, secure a grapple, and lower himself down to pick up the signal from the listening device planted on the bottom of the rec room chess table. Everyone knew Jonathan Crane played chess.

Reaching the gargoyle, Robin paused for a moment to rest. Cold air puffed against him, making him shiver slightly. Short sleeves were not the best choice when negating the icy tops of buildings in a Gotham winter.

_Note to self: ask Alfred for a better winter costume. _

Robin threw the grapple around the ugly statue, pulling it tight, and began the laborious process of lowering himself down to the specific height at which he could see into the recreation room without being seen. Luckily, he'd had some experience in this before.

Placing the receiver headphone in his right ear, Robin peered into the C-block recreation room. It looked bare and rather dull, with ugly off-white painted cinderblock walls and bare concrete flooring. A much-beaten sofa had been placed in the center of the room, and Pamela Iseley lounged at one end of it, staring at an ancient television set bolted to the ceiling. Robin couldn't see the screen from his angle, but he didn't doubt it was playing some sort of gardening show. At the other end of the couch, Joker had sprawled himself out upside-down and was apparently talking to Harley Quinn, who was sitting a few feet away. Waylon Jones, Harvey Dent, and Maxie Zeus were engaged in a game of cards in the corner, and Jonathan Crane was predictably hunched over the chess table, scowling. The game was in full swing, despite the lack of an opponent, and Robin turned up the volume of the receiver.

He'd planted a similar listening device in Crane's cell, but it never recorded anything useful, such as Places The Riddler Might Be Hiding, Locations of Stolen Money And/Or Chemicals, or Plans For Gotham City. Crane tended to focus on his own favorite topics, namely Reasons The World Should Be Afraid Of Scarecrow and Ways To Kill Edward Nygma. Not to mention the nursery rhymes… Robin groaned. He'd put a miniature tape recorder under Tetch's bed once, resulting in his own personal recording of "Through the Looking Glass," recited verbatim with disturbing Arkham sound effects. That was nothing to the tape of Crane's cell. The ex-professor had chanted "Sing a Song of Sixpence" for nearly four hours straight before an orderly threatened to shut him up. Crane had responded with a vivid description of what it would feel like to fall to one's death from the Empire State Building, and the orderly had fled.

At least they knew what Crane did at the asylum now.

"Nygma… Edward Nygma…" a voice rasped in Robin's ear. He grimaced and adjusted the volume. "He betrayed us, the fool… the _fool…" _Scarecrow chuckled darkly. "I will see him scream. He will writhe in terror, howling out the name of Scarecrow—"

"Hey, Spooky! Why so serious?" came a high, nasally voice. There was a solid slap and a quick gasp as Joker slapped Crane on the back. "Know what your problem is?"

"Leave me alone, Joker," Crane said quietly.

"Leave you _alone? _I'm afraid that's, uh, impossible right now!" Joker grinned. He settled into the seat across the table and put his feet up, sending chessmen tumbling. "But don't worry, old bean; Uncle Joker has just the pick-me-up for a sad Scarecrow!"

"Joker, I'm warning you, I'm not in the—"

Crane hadn't seen Harley Quinn sneaking up behind him. Robin suppressed a grin as the blonde suddenly grabbed Crane from behind, covering his eyes.

"GUESS WHO!"

"Harley!" Crane fairly shrieked, nearly falling out of the chair. His long, thin arms and legs made him look like… well… Robin didn't say it. "My goodness, child, what were you thinking? You will give me a heart attack, sneaking up from behind like that!"

Both Joker and Harley Quinn were laughing uncontrollably, Joker tipping his chair over and rolling on the floor. Crane crossed his arms and glared at them.

"What's the matter, Crane?"

Poison Ivy entered the fray, placing her hands on Crane's shoulders in a way that clearly made him uncomfortable.

"You're not _scared, _are you?" she murmured, running her hands down the doctor's arms. Crane transferred his glare from the cackling clowns to the sultry redhead leaning over the back of his chair.

"Leave me alone, Ivy," he growled. "It's bad enough that those imbecilic fools must have their laugh at my expense."

"Oh, but I don't think it's bad at _all," _Ivy purred. "Where's your little friend with the hat?"

Crane deliberately removed Ivy's hands from his arms.

"I thought you hated his hat."

"I do. It's a symbol of a reprehensible era of male tyranny and female repression," Ivy said. "Now, if I had my way…"

"What do want, Ivy?" Scarecrow snapped.

Ivy's voice dwindled to a breathy whisper as she leaned in close. Robin turned up the volume, trying to ignore the evil clown laughter in the background.

"_I want to come with you."_

Jonathan Crane immediately sat up straighter; Robin strained to keep him in sight. The good doctor appeared to be uneasy, scanning the area for anyone who might overhear. When he spoke, it was also in a near whisper.

"How did you find out?"

Poison Ivy smiled and leaned closer. Even at a distance, Robin could see the dark look Scarecrow was giving the woman. It didn't seem to deter or even bother her, however, and she placed a hand on the lanky professor's shoulder.

"I have my ways," Poison Ivy breathed.

Crane coughed pointedly and tried to pull his shoulder out of Ivy's grasp.

"Crane," Ivy continued, her voice smooth and sultry, "Don't underestimate me."

"I wouldn't be so foolish," the Scarecrow snapped back.

"Good. Then you'll take me with you when you go."

Robin smiled grimly. _When you go. _So Scarecrow _was _planning an escape. Ivy straightened up and walked back to the sofa, long red hair swinging behind her. Jonathan Crane merely slumped on the chess table and looked miserable. After a few minutes, he gave the chess table a savage kick. The chessmen went flying; the Joker and Harley Quinn laughed all the harder. Crane stalked out, leaving the two Rogues laughing hysterically behind him.

Robin was all too glad to straighten up and get the kinks out of his back. However dramatic it might look, literal eavesdropping was extremely uncomfortable. Not to mention cold. Icy water trickled down the roof, filling the gutters to nearly overflowing and splashing lightly on his thin costume. Gathering up the grapple and listening receiver, Robin prepared to go back the way he had come. As he did, the pale winter light flashed on something metallic in the gutter.

"Oh… hey! I've been wondering where this went!"

Robin picked up the Batarang, tossed it in the air, and caught it again.

* * *

_I thought you hated his hat. _I have nothing against top hats (I wear one myself from time to time). I mean, the fashion is just so... so perfect. But they really did flourish during a time when women wer the lesser sex, and I can't see Ivy taking kindly to that.


	3. The Doctors and the Nurses

Gotham General Hospital always had its hand full. Besides the traffic accidents, heart attacks, kitchen mishaps, and random muggings inherent to living in any city, it treated injuries incurred from things like question-mark hooks, strangling vines, and exploding cyanide pies. Look in any decent tour guide of America, and you will find Gotham listed as famous for two things: Batman, and Batman's "Rogues Gallery." The "Rogues," so-called, have made Gotham the most dangerous city in America for nearly a century. Ever since the appearance of a strange, murderous, and indisputably insane criminal calling himself "the Joker," Gotham has been host to a gallery of costumed criminals, dubbed the "Rogues" by the popular press. Gotham General has treated hundreds of Rogue victims: men who lost the coin toss, women who dined at the Iceberg Lounge, children who lived at the intersection of Carroll Boulevard and Alice Street.

So when Robin dropped into Gotham General to visit his recovering friend, Bruce Wayne, the hospital was as peaceful as it got. Two ambulances were pulling into the portico as Robin leaped gracefully from the top of a city bus and landed on the awning over the door.

"Okay, okay, let's get him in! Move move move, people, he needs a respirator stat!"

"Just keep breathing, sir, just stay with us. It's all right, everything's going to be all right, just focus on my forehead, can you do that for me? Oh #$&%, he's fading. Oxygen mask, now!"

The EMTs and their gurney disappeared into the hospital, and Robin cringed slightly. It was always hard to see someone like that… helpless… Despite all he and Batman did to keep Gotham safe, it often fell to the unrecognized doctors to actually save lives. Robin recalled what Batman had once said about the doctors of Gotham being the real heroes. Maybe that was why Bruce Wayne donated so generously to the city's hospitals.

Robin walked in slowly, taking stock of his surroundings out of habit. It looked nice, although a bit worn; the walls were painted a muted beige instead of stark white, and a few soft, if unmatched, chairs had been set in a waiting area.

Robin approached the desk, smiling politely at the pretty receptionist. She blushed, giggled, and smiled back.

"Robin! Hi! I mean, how good to see you!"

"Um… thanks. Do you know where Bruce Wayne is? I came to visit him after the Scarecrow attack."

"Oh—yes, I can get the room number in just a minute. He'll be in the respiratory recover ward, on the third floor. Hang on, just a minute," she smiled, tapping something into her computer. "Room 317. Let me know if you need anything else!"

"Thanks," Robin called over his shoulder, heading towards the elevator. "I'm good for now."

One thankfully uneventful elevator ride later, Robin found himself before an imposing set of double doors guarded by a thin, dour-looking man in scrubs.

"No admittance—oh," the man began in a dull monotone, breaking off when he noticed to whom he was speaking. Apparently, having one of the defenders of Gotham walk into a restricted wing was a regular occurrence in Gotham General; the man merely raised his eyebrows slightly and asked languidly, "May I inquire as to whom you are here to see?"

"Bruce Wayne. He's a friend of mine," Robin replied.

"Ah yes. Mr. Wayne. Room 317. Please, wear this in the hallway. It's for your own safety," the man intoned, holding out a gauze facial mask.

Robin couldn't resist a chuckle. In the past week, he'd been sprayed with fear toxin, nearly decapitated (first with a scythe, then with an axe), thrown in a piranha tank, and shot at by an umbrella-wielding aristocrat. If he'd been concerned about his own safety, he wouldn't have donned the Robin costume. Or snooped around the docks after midnight. Or rushed to Blackgate Penitentiary to stop the Penguin's escape.

Slipping the mask over his nose and mouth, Robin pushed past the swinging doors and into a long, white, sterile hallway. Female laughter drifted down the corridor, and Robin grinned under the mask. He knew where that came from. The door to room 317 was propped open, and there were at least four gorgeous women standing around Bruce Wayne's bed.

"Oh, you're so brave!" one of them gushed, leaning in close and aiming a Colgate commercial smile at Gotham's most eligible bachelor. "I don't know what I would have done!"

"Probably would have broken down crying," a platinum blonde replied maliciously. "Honestly, honey, you really have _no _backbone at all."

Bruce smiled awkwardly and opened his mouth to say something vaguely pacifying. Just then, his eyes fell on Robin, standing in the doorway.

"Robin!"

The women immediately turned with a chorus of _"It is Robin!" _and _"Amazing!"_

"Bruce. Ladies," Robin nodded, grinning. "I just stopped by to see how you were doing. If you have a moment, Mr. Wayne…"

The tittering quartet took the hint and retreated, throwing sweet glances at Bruce Wayne and evil looks at each other.

"Whew," Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I thought they'd never leave. Thanks."

"No problem. How's the back?"

Bruce grimaced. Usually it was Batman who sustained the serious damage while thwarting diabolical plots and collaring gangsters and costumed criminals in darkest night. Lately, however, Bruce Wayne had taken his share of the punches. He'd been kidnapped by Scarecrow, microchipped by the Mad Hatter (and dressed as the White Rabbit, of all things), nearly had his identity guessed by the Riddler, and, to top things off, ended up inhaling fear toxin and being crushed under a pile of iron playing cards. After the trauma of last week's kidnapping/experimentation/attempted murder, it was little wonder the billionaire needed some time to recuperate.

"The back is fine," he replied. "I wish I could say the same for the ears."

Robin grinned sympathetically.

"Well, as Alfred says, you have an image to keep up."

"And you don't?"

Robin shrugged.

"Eh… Dick Grayson's studying back at the Manor. Big test tomorrow. I imagine he'll drop by later today."

"Then you have something important to tell me," Bruce stated.

Robin sighed, smiling. Nothing ever slipped past Batm—er, Bruce Wayne.

"It's Scarecrow," he said. "I just got back from Arkham."

"The listening device?"

"Worked perfectly. Apparently, he and Poison Ivy are planning a breakout. Oh, and, uh, when he does get out, I'm going to be really, really glad not to be the Riddler."

* * *

"…but all the same, I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal," Jervis Tetch muttered. His voice came out muted and distorted through the clear plastic mask, but he didn't care. The doctor wouldn't have listened anyway.

"As I was saying, Mr. Tetch," the doctor said, giving the blond-haired man a stern look, "both Dr. West and I think you're almost ready to be moved. In fact, the Arkham transport should be here by tomorrow morning, and…"

"Then gave me a good character, but said I could not swim," Tetch mumbled. He tuned the doctor out and stared morosely out the window across the room. Storm clouds swirled across the horizon, casting all of Gotham in shadow. A few pieces of litter tumbled past the window in a gust of wind. It looked like the sky had been rubbed with an enormous, dirty eraser.

It was still a better view than he got in Arkham.

"'Do I look it?' And indeed he did not, being made entirely of—"

"Mr. _Tetch_!" the doctor almost shouted, bringing the Mad Hatter back to reality with a jolt. "As I was saying…"

"Oh, do be quiet!" Jervis snapped. He stared straight ahead, trying to regain his train of thought. "Your hair wants cutting."

The doctor sighed and gave up. Setting his clipboard to one side, he reached over and pressed a button on the machine supplying Tetch with oxygen. The Mad Hatter fidgeted, staring longingly at the machine. He felt sure he could quickly make a card or two, if only he had his hands free... but they had cuffed him to the bed rails, the jabberwocks, and there was always a doctor or nurse in the room. It was just like the infirmary at Arkham. Nobody trusted him any longer.

"It's very rude to make personal remarks," Tetch said to no one in particular. "But it's very rude to sit down without being invited, too..."

* * *

_Ever since the appearance of a strange, murderous, and indisputably insane criminal calling himself "the Joker"… _The Joker really was Batman's first theme villain. Catwoman and the Penguin closely followed, but Kane waited until fall to introduce the Scarecrow.

…_children who lived at the intersection of Carroll Boulevard and Alice Street… _These are real streets, I kid you not. I drive on them every day, and if you take Carroll West, you come to the following streets: Alice Street, Anne Street, Queen Circle, Kings Row, Rabbit Run, and Lewis Drive. It makes me very happy.


	4. Unforeseen Developments

"So what are you going to do about the break-out?" Bruce asked.

"Try to stop it, of course! But I wanted to see if you had any tips for me. You've dealt with the Scarecrow in Arkham before... any secret passageways or subterranean tunnels I should know about?" Robin replied. "Any, um, strategic suggestions would be fine too."

Bruce appeared to be thinking.

"No," he said finally. "The ball is in your court now, Robin. I wasn't kidding about the training exercises. I want you to be able to make decisions on your own, find your own strategy, your own style. You were absolutely right when you said," he hesitated, "much of Gotham sees you as my sidekick. It's a mistaken view, and a dangerous one. I won't always be here, Robin, and the day will come when you will need to defend Gotham on your own. When that day comes... Gotham will need a hero, not a sidekick."

"Soooo... guess I'll be doing all the work myself on this one, huh?"

"Think of it as an opportunity to hone your skills," Bruce said seriously. "Your first time- well, actually, your _second _time flying solo. You'll have the Batcave at your disposal, and the computer, and the lists of contacts, and Alfred to support you."

Robin quirked an eyebrow. Bruce sighed.

"And yes, you can take the Batmobile."

"Aw, _sweet!_ I mean," Robin quickly amended, "I'll make you proud."

Bruce smiled. Just then, the door swung open, and a dark head poked into the hospital room.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Ah, Lucius!" Bruce exclaimed. "Come in! What's the latest crisis facing Wayne Industries?"

The head quickly emerged, attached to a body in a dark, formal suit. Lucius appeared to be a handsome African-American businessman in his mid-forties. The perfectly tailored suit, the gleaming black briefcase that hung at his side, the easy assurance with which he carried himself- every inch of him screamed success.

"I hope I'm not disturbing anything," Lucius said, eyeing Robin as he made his way towards the billionaire's bed.

"Not at all! This is Robin," Bruce said in the mock-casual tone of someone introducing a celebrity to his friends. "He just stopped by to chat. Robin, this is Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and my right-hand man."

"But I thought you owned Wayne Enterprises," Robin played along.

"Sure, I own it," Bruce yawned. "Lucius just runs it for me."

"Mr. Wayne is far too _busy _to spend much time with the corporation," Lucius said. "I'm more than happy to oversee Wayne Enterprises and its many dependent components. There's so much involved in administrating a large corporation- well, a business of any kind, really. There are thousands of small details, and Mr. Wayne," his dark eyes flitted to the billionaire reclining casually in the hospital bed, "has much more important things to attend to."

"I... see," Robin said, looking from the billionaire to the businessman. "Well, I should probably be going. I just stopped by to wish Mr. Wayne a happy recovery."

"Of course," Lucius said smoothly. "I greatly appreciate everything you do for Gotham City..." he smiled knowingly. "Tell Batman the same when you see him."

"I will, thanks," Robin said. Walking to the window, he swung one leg over the ledge and quickly scanned the street below for easy landing spots. "Get well soon, Mr. Wayne."

"Will do!" Bruce called with a laugh. Robin smiled and swung easily out of the window, disappearing into the street below.

"Now Mr. Wayne, we have a serious situation," Lucius said, turning back to the hospital bed. "LexCorp is trying to move in on one of our component businesses."

"Can't this wait?"

"No, Mr. Wayne, it cannot. Lex Luthor is trying to gain a foothold in Gotham City, and we cannot let that happen. Just look at what happened in Metropolis last-"

"Whoa, whoa, you're preaching to the choir," Bruce said. "I don't want LexCorp in Gotham any more than you do. If it's that urgent..."

"It is. Luthor sent one of his top, uh, women, a Ms. Kitty Kowalski, to attempt a buyout and takeover of the WayneCorp Development and Research Labs."

"He's after the _labs? _How is that even possible? Last time I heard, the labs were doing wonderfully! Wasn't it that, eh, that improved rubber seal last month that kept Wayne Enterprises in the black?" Bruce asked. "They can't be in debt- and even if they were, we've got enough from last quarter to bail them out temporarily."

"No, no, that's exactly why he's after it," Lucius explained. "The WayneCorp Labs are some of the best in the country. They're one of our most dependable sources of positive returns, even in the bad months. We lose the labs, and we'll be lose about a third of the profit margin in equipment and held patents alone."

"But how could Luthor possible take over the labs if I'm not willing to sell?" Bruce queried.

"Well, that's why I came to see you, Mr. Wayne," Lucius said reluctantly. "I'm afraid our head of research and development, Jeffrey Aster, has er... acted indiscreetly with Ms. Kowalski. The long and short of it is, he's being blackmailed into selling out WayneCorp to Luthor. He'd legally sell off several key production plants- which he _can_ technically do without your authorization- and then do a lot of hiring and firing. So even if the name stayed the same, WayneCorp would quickly turn into LexCorp."

"He told you this?"

"No. He's still considering it. And we can't prove the blackmail even exists," Lucius said.

"How do you know, then?" Bruce asked. "I mean, a love affair? Seems to me that would be one of the highest types of secrets."

"I know a lot of secrets," Lucius replied simply. "It's my job to know."

"Well..." Bruce said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. "What do you want me to do? I mean, what do you think is best?"

"Unfortunately, there's not much we can do," Lucius sighed. "The best we can do is cut Aster's power, and quickly. Even then, he still legally owns several of the components; it would still end up a partial buyout. But it's better than nothing."

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"So all we can do is run damage control?" he said. "That's... this company means the world to me, Lucius. Especially WayneCorp. Are you sure there's nothing else we can do?"

"Nothing legal," Lucius said.

Bruce swore quietly.

"Where do I sign?"

* * *

"...they told me you had been to her, and mentioned me to him," Jervis Tetch recited quietly. In the corner near the window, the nurse on duty sat slumped in her chair, a soft snore floating from her open mouth. Tetch twisted against the handcuffs, his eyes darting rapidly over the room. Anything that could free him from this blasted bonds... "Then gave me a good character, but said I could not swim."

The sudden rattle of a gurney, accompanied by the slow shuffle of one or more nurses, alerted Tetch to movement in the hall. Straining his neck, he peered curiously out the door. They'd left it wide open, unfortunately, and the nurse's station had a clear view straight into his room lest he try anything. But there was one benefit: if he leaned to the left, he could get a fairly good view of the hallway. It was at least more interesting than watching the nurse in the corner nod and snort in her sleep. Two, three male nurses walked into Tetch's line of vision, wheeling a stretcher between them. The Mad Hatter wondered where they were going, and with what purpose.

"With what porpoise?" he asked himself quietly. "I only wish I had such eyes. To be able to see Nobody! And that distance, too! Why, it's as much as I can do to see real people by this light!"

To Tetch's surprise, the group stopped just outside his own door. For a moment he thought they were going to "check up" on him again; then he noticed that the nurses were unlocking the door across the hall. A wide smile split the Mad Hatter's face. He was going to have a neighbor! He focused on the still figure on the stretcher, trying to make out any distinguishing features. If it was a fellow Rogue, even someone like Joker or Croc, he would finally have someone to talk to.

The man on the stretcher looked pale, overweight, and decidedly non-villainous. Tetch's hopes sank, and he studied the lock of the handcuff. If he had but a paperclip, a screwdriver, a firm wire! But no, no, they had been far too careful for that. Jervis glanced back up at the hallway just in time to see his new neighbor being wheeled into the room. One nurse came back outside and began fiddling with the sign outside the room. What could be the matter with it? 212 was a perfectly good number; it had a two in it, and another two, and a good little one in between, like the frosting of an Oreo cookie. Jervis liked Oreo cookies, although he much preferred ladyfingers or shortbread cookies; they went so well with tea. He wished he had a cup of tea with him now. He could just imagine it: hot and dark, with the steam curling slightly off the surface, brewed loose-leaf in a delicate china teacup... and cream and sugar and lemon served out of a proper tea service, too.

"Antipathies," he muttered under his breath. "They only give them oyster-shells in there."

The nurse finished doing whatever-it-was to the sign and walked out of sight. Oh, he had been hanging a nameplate. Tetch wondered if he had a nameplate outside his door, and if it read "Mad Hatter" as it ought to. He had the sneaking feeling it did not. He had little against his own name (that would be a problem, arguing with himself. He vaguely wondered which side of the argument he would take, and who would win), but if he had to be called something while being locked up, he much preferred "Mad Hatter" to "Jervis Tetch." Even "Hatta" would do in a pinch...

"I'm a Hatter, your majesty," he sighed. "_The _Hatter."

Squinting, the Mad Hatter could just make out the name of his new neighbor: ASTER, J.

"Aster," he muttered. "Aster... paster... patter... hatter!"


	5. The Great Escape

"So tell me why you _had _to escape this week again," Jonathan Crane muttered, squeezing himself even farther into the narrow corner of the ventilation shaft. With less than three feet of room in the old duct, it was almost impossible to avoid bodily contact with his companion. But Crane wasn't taking any chances. Although he hated to admit it, Poison Ivy scared him, especially at close quarters. Especially after she had incapacitated three guards with a kiss and broken the nose of a third who had whistled at her skimpy costume. The last thing he wanted was Ivy getting the idea that he was trying to feel her out. He pressed his spine deeper against the sharp corner and for once felt grateful for his rail-thin frame.

"You can relax, Crane, I know you're not trying to play snugglebunnies," Poison Ivy pointed out, a hint of amusement in her voice. "And as to why I wanted to escape right now... well, I could ask you the same thing."

"Business," the lanky villain snapped. He didn't relax an inch and didn't take his eyes off Ivy. "As usual."

"Mmmm. Well, I've got something a little more... personal... in mind," Ivy purred. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed to catlike slits, her hands balled into hard, knuckled fists, and she almost growled, "Someone's been murdering the Brazilian rainforests, and now it's time to pay."

Crane closed his eyes. Ivy had found about about the phonebooks he'd flushed to clog the sewage system. Or maybe the lack of recycling bins at his hideout, or the massive amounts of toxic pollution Crane Chemicals had released during its brief time of operation... whatever it was, she had found out about it. And Poison Ivy did not forgive easily. Jonathan Crane knew he was going to die right then and there, and his only hope was that Ivy would be merciful and get it over with quickly.

"Don't look so _scared, _Crow. I wasn't referring to you- although if I find out you've been buying stock with Meridian Inc or WayneCorp Labs, I may come after you too," Ivy said. "No, it's that hideous overweight insensitive exploiter of innocent forests I'm after."

"Oh? Who's the lucky guy?" Crane asked, slowly opening his eyes and trying to hide his relief. He didn't have to ask to know the 'exploiter' was a man. It was always a man with Ivy. He carefully glanced over his body, just to make sure there were no green lip-marks or looping tendrils or other, more insidious versions of killing a man with plants...

"Jeffrey Aster." Poison Ivy spat the name out with the same disgust and contempt reserved for spitting out mud, toads, insects, or moldy bread. Crane, assured that his body was plant-free, quirked an eyebrow at Ivy.

"Aster?" _What kind of name is that?_

"Isn't that ironic?" Poison Ivy sighed. "A man with a flower's name, destroying hundreds of endangered plants. He's already wreaked havoc in the rainforests of southern Brazil, and in a few weeks he'll be moving his vegetation death camps to the virgin forests of the west. He calls it expansion; _I _call it murder."

"So you're going to 'expand' into Aster's office?" Crane quipped.

"I couldn't have put it better myself," Ivy replied. "Give me a boost up; I think I see a grate ahead."

The spindly ex-professor was only too glad to let Ivy climb atop his bony shoulders; it meant less invasion of his personal space and hers.

"So how about you?" Ivy asked, pulling herself easily into a horizontal vent and leaning down to give the Scarecrow a hand up. "Just business? Or are you going to... I don't know... track down the Riddler as well?"

**"His screams will be as music to my ears," **Scarecrow hissed. **"That overweening nincompoop will-"**

"Oh, give it a rest, Scarecrow. We've all heard your plans a dozen times," Ivy scoffed. "He betrayed you, he's a moron, you're going to scare him to death, blah blah blah."

Scarecrow glared at Ivy and muttered something dire under his breath. Poison Ivy just rolled her eyes and easily pulled Crane up into the grate.

"You know, that would have been much more impressive had I not weighed little more than a bag of sticks," Crane remarked.

"Yeah, sure. You do know the way out, don't you?"

"Of course I do!"

"Good. It would be terrible if we were to be lost up here... together..." Poison Ivy sighed.

"You're telling me," Crane said, but he said it under his breath. "Two right turns and a left," he said aloud.

"Excellent," Ivy purred. "Oh, and Crane, where are you planning to go after leaving Arkham?"

"I hardly think that's any of your-"

"Oh, but it is. You know where I'm going, and it would hardly be fair for you to know all my secrets and me to know none of yours... would it?"

"If you must know," the disgraced doctor snapped, puffing himself up, "I have several bat-free hideouts left. I shall secret myself in one of them, synthesize a few hundred kilograms of fear toxin, and seek out Edward Nygma A.S.A.P."

"Hmmm. And how will you get from the outside of Arkham Asylum to one of these hideouts?" Poison Ivy asked.

Dr. Crane shot a withering glare at his compatriot.

"What is the point-"

Poison Ivy half-turned, effortlessly wrenching an iron security grate from across the outer intake vent. She carefully set the heavy grate down and looked up at Crane, her eyes almost glowing in the cold winter half-light.

"Unless you borrowed an invisible aircraft from the Amazonian witch, you have no transport from Arkham. And with all this ice and snow, that red shirt will stand out like a flag for miles. You'll have to run half a mile to the nearest building, which, as we all know, has multiple cameras trained on it. I'm offering you a ride, Crane."

"In exchange for what?" Crane asked warily.

"Nothing much. I want that murdering scoundrel to know exactly what he's done, to experience everything those poor, defenseless trees did. I want him to feel their pain, their helplessness... their fear."

Scarecrow eyed Ivy warily.

**"All that for a ride?" **he rasped.

"What if I told you I know where Nygma's hiding?" Poison Ivy asked.

Scarecrow grinned and rubbed his bony fingers together.

**"Where's the ride?"**

_"Unless you borrowed an invisible aircraft from the Amazonian witch..." _In early incarnations (as well as the old live-action TV show), Wonder Woman uses an invisible jet to track down criminals.


	6. Joys of Partnerhood

Arkham Asylum was ablaze with sound and light. The escape alarm shrieked out a piercing note, high and shrill and deafeningly loud. The incessant sound was broken only by the wails of police sirens as three Gotham Police Department cruisers broke over the low hill, sped through the iron gates, and came screeching to a halt in front of the infamous hospital. The flicker of red and blue blended with the powerful searchlights from the guard towers as they swept over the asylum grounds. Jonathan Crane and Pamela Islely had escaped.

The frame of the first police car shook as Special Detective Harvey Bullock heaved himself out of the car, still clutching a box of doughnuts under one arm.

"Geez, Commissioner, why don't we just put a revolving door on the place?" he grumbled.

"The asylum security does what it can," Commissioner Gordon replied automatically.

"Yeah, well-"

Bullock's complaint was cut off by the appearance of a balding, middle-aged man in a white coat.

"Greetings, gentlemen!" he shouted over the din. "I am Dr. Bartholomew, director of Arkham Asylum!"

"Commissioner Gordon, and this is Harvey Bullock," the white-haired policeman explained, extending a hand. "How many have escaped?"

"Just two- Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, and Pamela Isley, Poison Ivy," the doctor shouted back. "We noticed they were missing an hour ago. Some of the orderlies think-"

"All right, we'll take it from here," Bullock butted in. "Jones! Wilkes! We need a cordon around this building ASAP!"

"That's quite unnecessary," Dr. Bartholomew protested. "We have our own security-"

"Yeah, and we can all see how your own security is working out," scoffed Bullock, with a wide sweep of his arm. "Excuse me, sir, but why don't you just step aside and let us do our jobs?"

Dr. Bartholomew opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, staring at something behind Harvey Bullock. The burly detective turned just in time to see the blinding beam of a nearby searchlight catch a figure swinging from the roof in a long, graceful arc. In the brilliant light, the rope nearly disappeared, and the figure became dappled with silver and black, its cape rippling in a stream of light and shadow.

"Batman," Harvey Bullock groaned.

"No," Commisioner Gordon corrected him. "Robin."

"And that's supposed to be an improvement?" grunted Bullock.

"Good evening, Commissioner," Robin yelled as he approached. "Some noise out here, huh?"

"I'll, uh, go see if we can get that turned down," Dr. Bartholomew said, and quickly retreated into the asylum.

"Robin, good to see you," Commissioner Gordon replied. "We could use some help. The Scarecrow and Poison Ivy managed to escape."

Robin sighed.

"Oh, really."

"Yeah, really," Bullock put in. "Or maybe they're just hiding on the asylum. Or under it. We're setting up a cordon right now."

Abruptly, the alarms switched off. All three parties breathed a sigh of relief.

"Actually, that won't be necessary," Robin said, sticking a finger in his ear to see if it was still functioning properly. "I found tire tracks in the snow in that field over there. Two sets of footprints, too. They're headed back to Gotham City."

Commissioner Gordon sighed.

"Oh, well that's just peachy," Bullock snorted. "They had a getaway vehicle! And at least an hour's head start. All right, boys and girls, I want two of you to get a tire imprint from the field. Everyone else, pack it up! We're heading back to Gotham. Not that I expect we'll find 'em anytime soon. Those two costumed nuts could be anywhere by now."

* * *

_"This _is your impenetrable hideout?" Ivy scoffed.

Jonathan Crane scowled at the voluptuous villainess from behind his chemical purifier.

"I never said it was impenetrable, and yes, it is my hideout," he snapped. "It has concrete walls and reinforced steel doors, a functioning laboratory in the basement, and several easy access routes to the heart of the Gotham steel district. Furthermore, it is legally rented to an impeachable citizen who has absolutely no idea of my-"

"There are no plants here," Poison Ivy interrupted, tracing one finger along a dark concrete wall. "Not even a weed. Everything is cold and hard and dark. How like a man."

Crane's jaw almost dropped.

"Please tell me that wasn't a serious accusation," he said incredulously.

"No," Ivy assented. "It was a joke. Now, where do you keep the fear toxin?"

"Don't be absurd!" the digraced doctor sniffed, crossing his spindly arms over his chest. "As if I would tell you where-"

Poison Ivy's hand shot out with alarming speed and seized Crane by the throat. Within a matter of seconds, he found himself pinned to the wall, his trachea slowly being squeezed shut by a soft, white, and surprisingly strong female hand.

"Care to reconsider your words?" Ivy growled.

Unwisely, Crane gave Ivy one of his most scathing glares, clawed at her chokehold, and shot out a spindly leg, knocking Poison Ivy's legs from under her.

**"Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home," **Scarecrow hissed, backing away slowly and feeling along the wall with one hand. He'd had the foresight to conceal several canisters of fear toxin in a small, hidden, easily accessible cabinet somewhere along the wall, vaguely thinking that he could race to the wall, pull out a canister of concentrated terror, and stop any would-be intruder with ease.

"I thought we had a deal," Poison Ivy said, getting up slowly. Her eyes looked luminous, poisonous- _green for danger, _Crane thought grimly- and a dangerous half-smile played about the corners of her lips. "Backing out so soon?"

Jonathan Crane kept narrowed eyes on her, distrustful and wary, as his right hand continued to grope the wall out of Ivy's sight.

"Look, Crane," Ivy said, deliberately addressing the straw man's tamer side, "we both have something the other needs. We can help each other... or we can descend into petty, counterproductive squabbling until the Batman finds us and drags us back to Arkham."

Crane's hand found the sliding handle of the cabinet, but he didn't move, didn't take his eyes from Ivy's. The villainess locked eyes with him for a few seconds, then shrugged.

"Well, if that's how you want it..." she said, deliberately turning her back.

Immediately, Crane's gangly body relaxed. His right hand dropped to his side, and he shook his head vigorously.

"Not at all," the spindly ex-professor amended. "Far be it from me to allow an unfortunate- err- miscommunication to terminate our relationship. Err- ah- that is to say-"

"Good," Ivy said. "When can you have the toxin ready for me?"

Again, Crane's features assumed a distinct look of distrust.

"Ready for you?"

"Yes, I'll be needing it for Jeffrey Aster as soon as possible," Poison Ivy said, keeping her voice even and casual. "Why, is it a problem?"

Scarecrow's brow furrowed, and his eyes darted from side to side mistrustfully.

"I..."

"I thought we had a deal," Ivy repeated sharply.

**"You can't have it!" **Scarecrow spat. "I mean... I don't usually allow others to... I'd be quite happy to gas the offensive entrepenuer for you, but I really can't..."

"Afraid to let someone else play with your toys?" Ivy teased. "Fine, then. You can come along and do it yourself so I won't have to touch your precious toxin. Just as long as you stick to the plan, don't interfere, and don't get us caught."

"Me?"

"Do we have an agreement?"

Crane glared, crossed his arms, uncrossed his arms, and finally held out his hand.

"Why do I feel like I just obtained a new boss?"

"Oh, you just _obtained _way more than a boss," Ivy replied. "Better grab some sleep, Crane. We're heading out bright and early."


	7. A Cruel Mercy

Robin lowered himself down the side of Gotham General Hospital, careful to stay in the shadow along the side. Bruce had been fortunate enough to get a room away from the public front, with a window facing into a dead alley. The view the room afforded was terrible. The visitors it permitted were... slightly better. Robin grunted, lowering himself hand over hand until he reached the window. It was one of the Batman's most famous strategies- dangling silently near a window in order to overhear conversation and/or enter dramatically- but, geez, it did a number on one's wrists.

The window was closed. Robin reached down, snagged the thin ledge, and prepared to pull it up. That's when he heard voices coming from inside the room. Robin froze.

"-representing LexCorp? I thought they were sending someone else. A Kitty someone or other," came a familiar drawl.

"Regrettably, Miss Kowalski is unable to come," a crisp, sharp female voice replied. "She is, uh... taking a much-needed break."

"Okay, so why are you here?"

"Let's drop the corporate-speak, Mr. Wayne. I'm here to oversee the Aster buyout."

"What?"

"Don't act so surprised, honey- or do you spend so much time partying you don't even keep tabs on WayneCorp Labs?" the voice smirked. "Your upstanding Mr. Aster has agreed to a buyout. Well, not really a buyout, but... you get get the picture."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Boss's orders. See, we're moving in on Gotham City, starting with the labs. And if you're a smart little playboy, you'll know that what the boss wants, the boss gets. It's pretty simple. You just can't beat us."

"So... you want me to join you?"

"Well... let's just say we'd be _incredibly _interested in buying out Wayne Industries. You could even keep your precious Wayne Foundation, most of your salary-"

"Absolutely not."

"You might want to think twice about-"

"I don't have to think twice about it, the answer is no!"

"Well, it's your funeral. We're already poised to get WayneCorp labs... and there's nothing you can do about it. Did you know Mr. Aster's in the hospital too? Heart attack, but he's expected to make a full recovery. He's actually in the room right down the hall. All I have to do is take this little piece of paper, waltz down that hall, and get him to sign it. It wouldn't take five minutes. And, you know, your labs are like your number one source of positive returns... without WayneCorp, you're really gonna have to do some downsizing, Mr. Wayne."

"If you're trying to intimidate me, it's not working," Bruce growled.

"Like I said, Mr. Wayne," the voice shrugged, "It's your funeral."

There was the short, sharp sound of high heels on the linoleum, followed by the soft whine of the door opening. Robin waited until he heard the door click shut before sliding the window open and swinging into the hospital room.

"Whew," he sighed. "Who was that, your next date?"

Bruce looked up from his bed. His face was tinged with red, and his eyes were shooting Intidimation Beams from both sockets. Robin shuddered involuntarily.

"So, uh, not a date," he mumbled.

"That was Mercy Graves, Luthor's second-in-command," Bruce growled. "One Mr. Jeffrey Aster has turned traitor and is about to sell out WayneCorp Labs." Bruce's massive fist came crashing down on his hospital tray, upsetting a plastic dish. "I will not allow Lex Luthor to gain a toehold in Gotham!"

Robin gulped.

"So, I, uh, guess this isn't a good time to tell you that the Scarecrow and Poison Ivy broke out of Arkham and are hiding somewhere in Gotham," he said.

"YOU LET THEM ESCAPE?"

"It's not my fault! I raced down there as fast as I could, and I was patrolling the building!" Robin protested. "I followed them into the ventilation system, but... uh... well... remember that giant maze the Riddler made that one time?"

"Yes."

"It was worse than that."

"Robin. You cannot allow those two to run free," Bruce said, his voice heavy and commanding. "You must find them."

"I know! I'm sorry. I just... you're right. Won't happen again," Robin replied. "And I did have the computer locate several of Ivy's old hideouts on the way over."

"Ivy's hideouts."

"Well, I have four hours' worth of recording that says Scarecrow's going to track down the Riddler," Robin shrugged. "But I don't know what Poison Ivy's plan is."

"Good thinking," Bruce said. "Yes, that's a good plan..." he trailed off into silence.

"Anything I can do on the Luthor case?" Robin ventured.

"Mmm... afraid not. We're talking about the guy who's taken on Superman and won," Bruce said. "Luthor has a finger in every pie... you just can never bring the crime home to him. He's too slippery. Too secure. Robin, we can't do this alone. What we need is a lawyer."

"I never thought I'd hear you say those words," Robin commented.

"What, 'we can't do this alone'?"

"No, 'what we need is a lawyer.'"

"Ha, ha."

* * *

Outside the hospital, a large delivery van waited across the street. Its motor rumbled softly in neutral; its driver seemed half-asleep. According to the large gilded letters on its side, the van belonged to "DeWard & Nashton: Novelty Toys Since 1948." A meter maid paused, checked the parking meter, and nodded to the driver before moving on, satisfied. As soon as the meter maid's blue-clad back was out of sight, a small, lively figure poked its head into the front of the van.

"You see, Mark?" it chided the driver, adjusting its green suspenders. "What did I tell you? When we do everything legally, they can't do a thing to us! Oh, this is too perfect!"

"Actually," the hulking driver replied timidly, "my name is John."

The Riddler did not deign to justify that objection with an answer.

"And now... to finally spring the trap..." he said ominously. "Listen carefully. When I give you the signal, you shall leave this vehicle, ascend those steps, and enter the hospital. There, upon the third floor, you shall slip into the intensive care ward- are you paying attention?- and take this cord, with which you shall strangle-"

"The billionaire, right? You think he's the Batman?" the thug interrupted eagerly.

"Will you be quiet and listen to me! He may or may not be the Batman, that's what we're trying to figure out!" Edward Nygma screeched.

"Okay, okay, I got it. Sneak in there, strangle the playboy-"

"What? No! Why can you never listen when I give you instructions? Mark, Mark, Mark, Mark, Mark, why on earth would I want to dispose of Bruce Wayne?"

The thug looked genuinely confused by this point.

"Well, I thought you said he was the Batman-"

"You," the Riddler murmured, clenching his fists involuntarily, "are impossible. Now, you thick-headed buffoon, I shall explain myself once, and only once, more. Bruce Wayne may the Batman- it is possible- probable- likely even- but not certain. Have you got that through your ill-conceived lump of paste you call a brain?"

"Bruce Wayne might be Batman, yeah, got it," the thug mumbled. "So why not off him instead?"

"YOU TINY-MINDED MORON! Kill the Batman? Without even a riddle? Never! I tell you, I shall never do it!"

Edward Nygma's pasty face had assumed the shade of an overripe tomato, and a vein throbbed visibly in his forehead.

"Kill the Batman? Never, never, never! Without him, who would I riddle-me-this? There is no one- NO ONE- in this cursed city who comes close to matching wits with me but that infernal Bat! I hate him- yes, I hate him, for he consistently insists upon spoiling my ingenious plans- but without him... without him, there would be no more games, no more crimes, no more riddles! Who would understand them, if not him? Kill Batman? Never! Batman is my nemesis!"

"O-okay, boss. Settle down," the thug gulped, holding his hands up defensively. "I didn't mean to- I wasn't thinking-"

"Of course you didn't, you're not capable of thinking," the Riddler grumbled, regaining some of his former composure. "Now, for the last time, I shall explain. You will go to the third floor- you can count that high, can you not?- enter the intensive care ward unseen, and strangle a Jeffrey Martin Aster in room 311. Have you got that?"

"Yes, boss."

"Good. You will then-" the Riddler enunciated patronizingly slowly and clearly- "leave the cord in Bruce Wayne's room, or outside it, and exit the building without being apprehended. Can you do that?"

"Well..."

Nygma gave a despairing sigh and looked upwards as if pleading with a higher power for more patience.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What about the nurse?"

"I took care of the nurse, now go! Go, go, go, get out of my sight!" the Riddler fairly screamed. The imposing man exited the vehicle quickly, the door slamming behind him.

"O-okay! Okay! I'm going! Sheesh..."

John/Mark breathed in deeply, dropped the length of cord into his pocket, and headed across the street toward Gotham General Hospital.

* * *

"Ugh. It's way too early to be up," Jonathan Crane muttered, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Oh, stop complaining, Crane. It's two in the afternoon," Poison Ivy replied. "You have your toxin?"

"No, I usually dress up in rags and a burlap mask and run around Gotham with no fear gas or means of procuring it," Crane replied sarcastically. "Of course I have my toxin! The question is, do you have a gas mask?"

Poison Ivy rolled her eyes.

"Crane. I'm immune."

That was obviously news to the disgraced professor.

"What?"

"Yeah, it's one of the benefits of having a highly toxic, plant-based biology," Ivy said. "Now get in the car. We're going to the hospital."

"The hospital?" Crane echoed, dragging himself into the front of Ivy's stolen car. "Why?"

"Ironically, years of an unhealthy diet high in saturated fats and unnatural, synthetic flavorings caused our dear Mr. Jeffrey Aster to have a heart attack," Poison Ivy replied, climbing into the driver's seat and revving the engine.

"And he's not dead yet," Dr. Crane guessed

"Give the boy a prize."

"How do you even know this?"

"Well, it turns out that somebody sent Mr. Aster a nice, big pot of get-well-soon flowers," Poison Ivy explained. "And one of the nurses had the decency to open the window, so the poor buds could get some light and air. And then, you know, we've got all this wonderful spring breezes..." Ivy flashed Crane a movie-star smile. "Gotham General Hospital, room 311. It's in the intensive care ward... but, you know, he won't be needing _that _for long."

The car's back tires spun wildly, spitting dust and gravel as Ivy backed out of the "parking garage" and turned onto one of Gotham's winding back streets. In the passenger's seat, Jonathan Crane groaned.

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. Hold on to your mask, Scarecrow! We're going to avenge some rainforests!" Poison Ivy shouted over the sound of the engine roaring.

"Oh, boy," Crane mumbled. "I can't wait."

* * *

_"Regrettably, Miss Kowalski is unable to come..." _I just can't see Mercy Graves "acting indiscreetly" with anyone, especially not a corporate pencil-pusher. (I can see her developing a rivalry with Kitty, should they ever meet.)

_DeWard & Nashton: Novelty Toys Since 1948... _"DeWard" is... yeah, I like riddles, too. And Nashton is Eddie's last name in other continuities. The Riddler made his first appearance in Detective Comics in 1948.


	8. Murder Most Foul

"And how are you today, Mr. Tetch?" the little nurse asked, setting the hospital tray down on the foot of Jervis Tetch's bed. "Good news! The doctor says your fracture is healing very well."

The patient heaved a deep sigh and turned in his bed, eyes fixed on the window. The worn hospital blanket slipped off one shoulder and off the bed, and Jervis Tetch, aka the Mad Hatter, made a pitiful attempt to pull it back. His left arm came to a sudden stop about a foot from the bed rail, arrested by the solid circle of a police cuff. His right arm was similarly secured- not painfully, but restrictively. The nurse, a Chinese woman in her upper forties, came to his rescue, pulling the errant cover over his shoulder and patting it kindly. For a moment, Jervis was almost tempted to call her Alice.

"I wonder," he said shyly. "I wonder, could you open that window?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it stays closed," the nurse replied apologetically. "Police orders. But cheer up. It's time for lunch."

"I-I _will _take some more tea," the Mad Hatter said. "Thank you."

The nurse's face scrunched up in confusion. Jervis waited- would she, _won't she, would she, won't she, would she join the dance?_

"But you can't take _more _tea," she said. "You haven't had any yet."

Jervis beamed at her.

"You mean I can't take _less," _he said happily. "It's very easy to take _more _than nothing. -mark!"

Unfortunately, this confused the nurse even further.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked, passing him a plastic cup- of water.

"Perfectly wonderful, but someone else won't be," the Hatter said promptly. "I want a clean cup."

"Oh! well, you don't need to worry about that," the nurse said.

"Yes, but- well, I am worried," Jervis confided to her. "You see, it isn't an advantage at all. Just think of what it would make with the day and night! You see, the earth takes twenty-four hours to spin on its axis- we're all going to be late, but him especially. Very, very late."

The nurse nodded sympathetically, carefully situated the tray on Tetch's lap, and withdrew.

"I will be back," she called out. "Fifteen minutes."

Jervis Tetch did not seem to be listening.

"Twenty-four hours, I _think; _or is it twelve?" he said dreamily. "But I never could abide figures! I must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen."

* * *

"Oh, for the love of-" Ivy's hot pink Cadillac swerved and skidded around an oversized grey van. "Well, thank you, sir, for being so considerate and thoughtful to other drivers! Taking up two metered spots, parking a _foot and a half _away from the sidewalk... oh, and a _fifty-four? _You have got to be kidding me. The carbon output alone-"

"Do you want me to go have a, uh, word with him?" Crane inquired. **"I could easily-"**

"Uh-uh. We can't afford to call attention to ourselves before the fact," Poison Ivy snapped. "The last thing we need is the Batman dropping in for a surprise visit."

Scarecrow couldn't think of an answer to that, and so fell silent.

"Now, get your mask and follow me," Ivy instructed, pulling into a parking spot a few meters ahead of the van.

"What, we're just going to walk into Gotham General Hospital, murder Jeffrey Aster, and walk right out?" Crane asked sarcasically.

"That's right," Poison Ivy said.

Jonathan Crane considered commenting on his partner's mental state, but wisely thought better of it.

"How?" he snapped. "I don't see any remarkable plant-based weaponry, no means of mass distributing toxic spores or rapid-growth vine pods. You- you don't even have a gun!"

Poison Ivy turned and flashed a frighteningly sweet smile at the spindly ex-professor.

"That's right, Crane," she said. "Watch and learn."

With that, she turned, red hair fanning out around her shoulders, and began walking towards the entrance of Gotham General Hospital. Behind her, Jonathan Crane hesitated for a half second before slipping the burlap mask over his face and following her. Poison Ivy was either completely insane, utterly wrong, or totally justified in her confidence. As a trained (former) psychologist, Crane could easily dismiss the first; as a Rogue familiar with Ivy's alarming prowess, he was fairly sure the second was wrong as well. But even if Poison Ivy was wrong, and he stayed behind...

**"Tom fool, Tom fool, leads ahead," **Scarecrow muttered, clapping the much-battered straw hat over his mask. **"Jack fool, Jack fool, follows anon."**

Just outside the entrance, Poison Ivy stopped and pulled a small silver tube from her... Crane blushed under the mask and looked away. _Why couldn't she just carry a purse? _When he looked back, Ivy had opened the tube and was liberally applying a dark green substance to her lips. When she had finished, she twisted open the bottom of the tube. A handful of fine pink dust fell into her hand. With a wink to Crane, Ivy tossed the dust over herself.

"Just primping a little before the party," she said. "You do have a gas mask in that stitched sock, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Crane retorted haughtily. "You don't think I would-"

"Good. Now, be a gentleman and hold the door."

Grinding his teeth, Scarecrow stepped to the door and yanked it open.

* * *

In the lobby of Gotham General Hospital, the desk clerk was just starting to nod off. After the momentary excitement of last week's Scarecrow poisoning, there had been little activity. A few cancer victims checking in and out, a boy with a broken leg, a couple old ladies coming in for various tests, two or three heart attacks... and most of that had been earlier in the week. Today, there had been almost no activity. The clerk's head drooped towards the desk, then jerked upright. He wasn't going to fall asleep on the job... the manager would have his head...

"Hello there, handsome," a female voice purred.

The desk clerk woke up with a jerk. Standing before him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Long red hair curved around her face, falling almost to her waist. Her low-cut dress was a deep, leafy green; her eyes almost glowed with the same color. Leaning provocatively against the desk, the woman gave him a seductive smile.

"Tall, dark, and silent," she said. "Just what I like in a man."

"Uh," the clerk said.

"C'mere, honey, you don't need to talk," Ivy crooned.

Crane looked away in disgust as Poison Ivy leaned forward and kissed the man on the lips. Within seconds, there was a loud thump as the clerk's body slumped to the floor. Across the room, a blue-clad security guard looked up from his station. His eyes locked on Ivy, and his mouth fell open.

"We're just going upstairs for a little bit," the villainess called out to him. "Be a dear and make sure nobody disturbs us, will you?"

The guard nodded slowly, his eyes turning hazy. The heavy watchman's flashlight slipped from his hand and clattered on the tile. Crane shuddered and turned away.

"Now, as you suggested," Ivy said. "We just walk in, murder Jeffrey Aster, and walk right out."

* * *

The third floor of Gotham General Hospital was fairly quiet. The white, sterile hallways lay empty and still, the silence broken only by the rhythmical _shunk, shunk _of a respirator or the muted chattering of a television set. A few streets away, a car horn honked, the sound delightfully distant. The little Asian nurse made her rounds, delivering plastic trays of hospital food and a few kind words to each of the patients in rooms 315 to 330. The nurse-on-duty, a man, was playing solitaire. It was a new deck of cards, smooth and slick and slippery, and he took a sort of quiet pleasure in the _snick, snick _of the plastic slapping against Formica countertop.

The door to the ICU opened, and a gentleman- using the term loosely, of course- in a dark sweater came in. He walked to the nurse's station and said something in a low voice. The nurse nodded, and the man in the dark sweater walked down the hallway towards room 315 to 321. He paused outside one room, looked back down the hallway, and went in.

"That's everyone. I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Barney."

It was the tray distributor, her rounds finished.

"Take care. Oh, and you might want to pick up an umbrella on your way out. Looks like rain."

"I will be careful."

The nurse at the desk smiled, nodded, and turned over his next card. Ace of Spades.

BANG!

The door to the ICU flew open and hit the wall with an ear-shattering crack.

"So much for the subtle entrance," someone in the hall muttered. The nurse-on-duty recognized that voice, and immediately reached for the phone. Then he saw who was at the door. His jaw dropped, his eyes grew to the size of saucers, and he completely forgot about the phone, the security chief, Jeffrey Aster, and his game of solitaire. A few minutes later, he slid to the floor, unconscious.

"Come on, Crane," Poison Ivy commanded, stepping over the incapacitated man. "Jeffrey Aster has murdered his last tree. It's time that justice be done!"

Scarecrow's stitched mouth grinned, and his eyes narrowed behind the mask. To be honest, he didn't give a straw strand about the "murdered trees", but he'd never pass up the chance to watch a man writhe in helpless terror, screaming out his name in horror... he lived for the rush, the feeling, the fear. It had been far too long since the mayhem in the Square- he needed to hear a few despairing screams.

Suddenly, down the hall, a man in a dark sweater stepped out of a room. A piece of nylon cord hung from one hand, but when he saw Ivy and Scarecrow advancing down the corridor...

**"MARK!"** Scarecrow screeched, his eyes narrowing to slits. **"Stop him!"**

"Going somewhere?" Ivy purred.

The man dropped the rope and turned to run.

If Scarecrow had done nothing, it would have been over very quickly. Ivy's magic pink dust was spreading quickly, hanging through the air in a light haze, and it would have taken less than five seconds for the pollen to reach and overpower the fleeing henchman. Unfortunately, Scarecrow was far too eager- and far too angry- to think clearly. There was a faint hissing, and the air was suddenly full of a thick brown gas. "Mark" threw up his arms, screamed, and began running full tilt. The smoke alarms suddenly came on, deafening and piercing, followed by a gush of water from the ceilings.

"Crane!" Ivy shrieked.

**"Flee before me, cowering minion!" **Scarecrow howled. **"Oh yes, shake with terror and-"**

Poison Ivy clapped a hand over the straw man's mouth.

"Aster!" she growled in his ear.

**"Aster? That insignificant buffoon should be writhing in terror by now!" **Scarecrow replied, unable to hold back a laugh at the thought. **"All of them! Insane with fear, stumbling blindly about in extreme trepidation..." **At that moment, Ivy's subdued nurse woke up and promptly began screaming, sending Scarecrow into paryoxsms of twisted laughter.

"NOOO! Help, help, get 'em off, get 'em off of me! They're all over me, I can feel 'em, somebody help!"

"Well, I guess I'll leave you two boys alone," Ivy said, stepping over the writhing clerk and around the snickering Scarecrow. "We've got... oh, about an hour before the fellows downstairs wake up and call the police. Stay here, Crane. I'm going to give Mr. Aster a little taste of his own medicine."

With a vindictive smile, Ivy headed down the hallway, red hair bouncing behind her. Crane watched her go, the thick fog of fear toxin swirling in her wake. If there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that he was incredibly lucky not to be Jeffrey Aster. Scarecrow was about to return to tormenting the helpless arachnaphobic when he heard something. Someone was screaming... and the voice sounded slightly familiar.

* * *

_...rapid-growth vine pods. _They were used by Poison Ivy in the episode "Harley & Ivy" to subdue the chauvanistic members of a gentleman's club.


	9. I'm Late, I'm Late, I'm Late

In a narrow, crooked corner of Gotham's red-light district, a man was walking. He was a tall man, and a broad one; a prizefighter, perhaps, or a member of one of Gotham's crime families. He wore a tattered tan trenchcoat, lapels pulled tight around his collar despite the late-afternoon warmth, and a black fedora pushed down far over his brow. In fact, he was the bouncer for one of Gotham's newest- and most exclusive- nightclubs, and was currently on his way to work. Every few steps, the man threw a wary glance over his shoulders. There was someone watching him, following him... he paused outside the club door, shifting from foot to foot uneasily. The Black & Blue Bar had been open at its current location for almost ten months, a personal best for the manager. The burly bouncer wasn't about to jeopardize that by letting some no-name loser- or worse, some cop- find the Black & Blue. He scanned the street, his face a mixture of distruct and cynicism. He'd been born and bred on these streets, knew every one by heart, and there were still a half-dozen places for someone to sneak up on him.

THUNK.

Someone like a certain scarlet-clad crimefighter, who sailed through the air and landed gracefully atop a nearby rotting pickup. The bouncer whirled around, fedora tumbling to the ground.

"Robin!" the bouncer gasped. His face contorted into a scowl. "All right, whaddya want? I ain't done nothin'!"

"Will you relax? I just want to talk," Robin sighed. "Hey, I recognize you. You worked for, uh, Killer Croc, right? During the bank robbery!"

"I did my time!" the bouncer growled ferociously. "I'm out on parole, go ask the officer!"

Robin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Funny," he said. "I didn't know parolees were allowed to operate a villain's club in Gotham."

The man gasped.

"How'd you know about that?"

"Same way I know that you..." Robin paused, rocking back on his heels, "used to supply Poison Ivy with high-quality fertilizer. But that was before you got into the really dirty business. Right? I mean, selling crack for the Falcones is one thing, but actually bouncing at the Black & Blue?" Robin shook his head. "That ought to get you a few years on its own. Not to mention the crack and that crooked gun deal you had with-"

"Okay, okay! Whaddya want?"

Robin smiled.

"Where's Pamela Isely?"

"Ivy?" The thug shook his head. "Arkham. Least, that's the last I heard..."

A Batarang sliced into the wall inches from the thug's head.

"No, no, I swear! She was in Arkham! Okay, maybe I heard she escaped, but I dunno where she went, honest ta God!" The thug was on his knees now, pleading. "You gotta believe me! I haven't seen her since two years ago! I'll go straight, I swear, you just... gotta believe me!"

Robin sighed, shoulder slumping. He did believe the thug- the man was thoroughly terrified, and lying to one of the Dynamic Duo would get him nowhere. But the Black & Blue bouncer had been his last lead. As far as he could tell, Poison Ivy hadn't returned to any of her previous haunts or even spoken to her old contacts. Earth Alert, Gotham's number one ecoterrorist group, hadn't the slightest idea of Ivy's whereabouts; even Harley Quinn had no ideas on "Red's" location. Running a hand through his dark hair, Robin pulled his grappling gun out and shot it at the high carved ledge of a nearby building.

"What you said about going clean," he said, turning back to the cowering thug, "had better be true."

"Honest ta God!"

Robin rolled his eyes and pressed the button on the grapple that would take him up, up, and away from the ground. Sure. Maybe the thug would quit his job at the Black & Blue and try to become a productive citizen. And maybe Poison Ivy would make a complete recover and become the next Mother Theresa. Reaching the top of the building, Robin swung himself onto the ledge and pressed the radio button on his belt. The tiny receiver near his left ear sprang to life. It was a fairly new gadget, courtesy of the WayneCorp Technology & Development Labs, but Robin was already liking it.

"Alfred? It's Robin. The bouncer at the Black & Blue didn't know a thing," he report. "And now the Black & Blue knows we know where it is. They'll probably have the location switched within the week."

"Indeed," Alfred's voice crackled over the receiver. "I've just picked up a police report. Apparently, the Scarecrow has attacked Gotham General Hospital."

Robin could have kicked himself.

"What? When?"

"The Batwave just picked it up."

"On my way."

Robin gritted his teeth. It was a heck of a way to start the day: let the Scarecrow attack the hospital while he was interviewing bouncers. Well, he'd make up for it now. He'd swing over to the hospital, capture Scarecrow, and haul the spindly villain's backside to Arkham in record time. Robin aimed the grapple at the nearest building and fired.

* * *

The Scarecrow burst into the hospital room. He'd recognized that voice, and- Jonathan Crane ground his teeth together. No. Oh, no. The man on the bed was wide-eyed with terror, stammering and sputtering out random lines of nonsense poetry, and doing his best to cower away from an unseen Something despite being cuffed to the bed rail. It was Jervis Tetch.

"...he... he took his vorpal sword in hand..." the Mad Hatter whispered, buckteeth chattering against one another in fright. Crane swallowed, hard, unwelcome feelings of guilt rising in his chest.

**Interesting, **Scarecrow observed, **how the symptoms and fear and cold tend to parallel one another. **

_Shut up. Just shut up. _

Crane moved to Tetch's bedside, mentally cursing himself for not bringing an antidote. Stupid, stupid, stupid... just then, the Mad Hatter caught sight of the stitched Scarecrow mask and really started screaming.

**Not the brightest idea, eh Johnny? **Scarecrow grinned maliciously.

Crane ignored him and focused on sorting through the many bottles and vials stacked near the Hatter's bed. They had to keep a tranquilizer nearby; it was standard asylum procedure. A bottle of loxapine fell over and rolled off the table, hitting the floor with a sharp click. Crane bit his lip to keep from swearing. Why the heck did they keep Jervis on so many medications? All he needed to find was one.

"Crane?"

Poison Ivy appeared in the doorway, pushing back long red hair from her face. She frowned at the lanky supervillian.

"Is there a problem, Doctor?"

**"Shut up," **Scarecrow growled. "I need to find a tranquilizer so we can get him out of here."

Poison Ivy scowled at her lanky partner-in-crime and sidled over to the other side of Jervis' bed.

"Did I miss something?" she asked. "Since when do we take on charity cases?"

"Oh..." Crane ground his teeth together to keep from blurting out some particularly ripe insult. "Come off it, Ivy. If it were Harley lying there, you wouldn't be stopping for a moment. **Besides, Nygma betrayed us both. It's only fair that the Mad Hatter should get his chance at**"

Poison Ivy opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again.

"Okay," she said. And then, in a bizarrely disturbing movement, she leaned over and kissed Jervis Tetch on the mouth. Almost immediately, the Englishman's screaming subsided, his body relaxed, and Crane's jaw dropped.

"What... you... on earth..." he sputtered.

"Come on, Crane," Ivy said, rolling her eyes. "Quit acting like you got kissed instead of him. Now, I'm guessing we'll need these cuffs undone." She seized the left cuff in her hands and pulled. There was a faint _chink, _and the chain parted ways in the middle. Jonathan Crane swallowed hard.

"So you're superhumanly strong as well as immune to poison and seductively beautiful," he muttered. "Why didn't I guess it before?"

"Lack of imagination?" Poison Ivy suggested, breaking the other cuff and stepping away from the bed. "Okay, you wanted him, you carry him. Let's go."

And thus Dr. Jonathan Crane found himself staggering down a hospital corridor- the air quality of which was quickly becoming unbreathable- dragging an inert schizophrenic behind him while trying to keep up with an insane seductress. At least Scarecrow was enjoying the terrified screams echoing down the corridor.

**Aaaahhhhhhh yesss... listen to them, screaming in fear- in fear of ussss. Fools! Let them scream!**

"If you see a gurney, it would me most helpful," Crane grunted, shifting from foot to foot. Poison Ivy rolled her eyes turned to say something smart back. At that moment, the window two feet in front of the villainess exploded in a shower of broken glass and a blur of red and green. Shattered glass slid down the hallway, and Ivy had just the presence of mind to fall back before the intruder leapt to his feet.

"Poison Ivy," he said accusingly.

"Oh, I _am _pleased to see you remember my name," Ivy scoffed.

Crance grimaced. _Not good. If he's here, that means Batman is probably lurking around... _Poison Ivy brought her hands up to her lips and blew a kiss to Robin. The boy vigilante staggered for a moment, his eyes hazy. Poison Ivy grabbed Crane's arm.

"What are you waiting for? Let's get out of here!"

The two villains burst out of the main entrance, half-dragging the unconscious Mad Hatter between them. Above them, thick, noxious smoke billowed out of the broken window, curling in a sinister spire of orange and green. It took Ivy and Scarecrow less than ten seconds to cross the street, throw Jervis Tetch into the back of Ivy's convertible, and speed off, tires screeching.

"Take off that mask!" Poison Ivy shouted over the roar of the engine.

Crane gave her an evil look. He had no intention of becoming a mindless plant slave.

"Not a chance!" he yelled back.

"Oh, for the love of- get down!"

Crane obliged, just as three wailing squad cars sped past. They were headed in the direction of the hospital. He breathed a long sigh of relief.

"Where are we headed?" he managed to shout, his head still trapped between his knees.

"I've got a place on the West Side, now shut up and hold on!"

For once, Crane was all to happy to do as he was told.


	10. Framed Like a Portrait

"Robin? You okay?"

The voice sounded muffled and thick, as though coming from a long way off. Dick cracked an eyelid, winced at the bright light, and decided it would be better to stay in bed. Let Bruce handle whatever new emergency had come up... he needed to sleep. Bruce didn't seem to be able to take a hint, and started shaking Dick's shoulder.

"Come on, snap out of it."

No, he didn't want to get up! Dick made an effort, swallowed hard, and told Bruce exactly how tired he was feeling.

"Ermph."

Okay, so that didn't work out so well.

"I think he's waking up!"

And that definitely wasn't Bruce Wayne's voice. Reluctantly, Robin opened his eyes, and a blurry, overexposed image of Commissioner Gordon assaulted his eyes.

"Commish?" he slurred, rubbing his eyes groggily. Okay, so the mask was still on. That was good.

"Robin," Commissioner Gordon said. "Thank goodness. You were attacked by Poison Ivy."

"Scarecrow," Robin added, his vision still blurring at the edges. The room was slowly coming into focus- the shattered window to his left, the sterile whiteness of a hospital corridor, the blinding fluorescence of the overhead lights. Behind Gordon, a hulking, trench-coat clad figure was snapping pictures left and right. The brilliance of the flash made Robin want to close his eyes again.

"That's right," Gordon said. "We think they broke in to spring the Mad Hatter. Or at least the Scarecrow did."

"Hatter's gone?"

"Eh... his room's empty, and there's no way he could have snapped the handcuffs," Gordon replied. "You all right? You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," Robin groaned, sitting up and immediately regretting it. Gordon grabbed his shoulder, steadying him. "Eh... 'fine' is a relative term, y'know."

The Commissioner opened his mouth to reply, but was rudely interrupted.

"Well, well, looks like Sleeping Beauty's finally awake," Bullock jeered, crouching next to Commissioner Gordon. "I guess not even the Boy Wonder is invulnerable to Poison Ivy. Where's Batman, anyway? I'd a' thought he'd have shown up by now. Oh yeah, Commish, here's the pictures you wanted."

"Thanks," Gordon replied, taking the hefty detective's camera. "Did you and Montoya sort out what happened yet?"

Bullock scowled.

"We're working on it," he muttered, and retreated. Robin winced and shook his head.

"Someone's in a good mood," he commented.

"Yeah, well someone's trying to figure out who murdered Jeffrey Aster," Commissioner Gordon replied.

"Jeffrey Aster? The businessman?"

"That's right. He was here for heart trouble, I think- across the hall from Jervis Tetch. Maybe you'd better come take a look," Gordon suggested. Robin sighed, closed his eyes, and slowly got to his feet. His head was starting to clear, but he could also feel the beginnings of a massive headache forming. Just perfect.

"So what happened?" Robin asked, stepping over the broken glass as he headed down the hallway. "The fear toxin cause another heart attack?"

"I wish it were that simple," Gordon sighed. "Aster was strangled to death."

Robin stopped short.

"Strangled? That doesn't sound like Scarecrow or Poison Ivy's MO," he said.

"No," Gordon agreed. "It... doesn't."

There was a slight hesitation in the aging Commissioner's voice. Robin glanced at him sideways and raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

* * *

Detective Bullock slammed the cell door shut, hard. The barred iron door snapped shut, and Renee Montoya stepped up to lock it.

"There's your murderer, Commish," Bullock boomed, gesturing broadly at Gotham PD's newest prisoner. "Bruce Wayne. Who'd have thought?"

Inside the cell, Bruce Wayne groaned and slumped against the cement wall, his right hand going to his head. Robin gasped and stepped back. The billionaire had changed his hospital gown for an orange jumpsuit, and looked haggard and unkempt. Sweat beaded his forehead, his hair stuck out at impossible angles, and his face appeared to be swelling slightly from Poison Ivy's spore dust.

"Gordon, there has to be some mistake," Robin said, turning towards his friend. "I know Wayne- he would never-"

"That's what they all say," Bullock scoffed, manuevering his toothpick from the left side of his mouth to his right. "'Oh, officer, Johnny would never do such horrible things.' 'I know this woman, she wouldn't harm a fly.' Ya never can tell with criminals." He shook his head. "Wayne had motive, he had means, he had opportunity. We got a statement from a, uh, Miss Mercy Graves that Wayne hated Aster's guts. Then, when Scarecrow and Poison Ivy broke in an' flooded the place with fear gas- and that toxic spore stuff- Wayne had the perfect distraction. He snuck out of his room, strangled Jeffrey Aster, and then collapsed on his way back to bed. We even found the murder weapon in his room. What more do ya want?"

"Well, first of all," Robin broke in, "what was Scarecrow doing at the hospital with Poison Ivy?"

"They broke in to spring Tetch," countered Bullock, folding his arms across his chest. "Least, that was Scarecrow's motive. Ivy... well, I dunno, maybe she was casing the joint, gonna come back later and steal something."

"Yeah," Robin said. "I'm sure that's exactly what it was."

Bullock's heavy fist slammed into the Commissioner's desk.

"You got a better idea?" he growled.

"Now, Bullock," Gordon intervened. "Robin does have a point." Then, turning towards the boy vigilante, "But all the evidence does seem to point to Bruce Wayne as the primary suspect. If you have a better theory of what happened at the hospital, or you have any evidence that might acquit Wayne, we'd be more than happy to hear it."

Robin ground his teeth.

"I'll find the evidence," he snapped. "I'll find it, and I'll bring it back."

"Good," Commissioner Gordon said. "None of us want to see an innocent man condemned."

"But we don't want to see a guilty one get off 'cause he's filthy rich, either," added Bullock.

"We're still investigating the matter," Gordon finished. "If you hear anything or find anything, let us know."

Robin glanced at the holding cell one last time before turning to go.

"Oh, I will," he said. "You can be sure of that."


	11. It's Your World

"All right, Jonathan," Poison Ivy sighed, pulling up behind a large and dilapidated building and cutting the engine. "You can take your head out from between your knees now."

Grudgingly, Scarecrow pulled himself to a sitting position and began to survey his surroundings. Directly in front of the car, a run-down office building was apparently undergoing the first stages of ruin. A spiderwebs of cracks ran through the brick wall, blades of grass had pierced the buckling sidewalk, and the grimy windows were thickly curtained and, on the lower floors, guarded by iron bars. The eastern wall was blanketed with something green and leafy- Crane made a mental note to stay away from it, or at least wear gloves when handling it- and something ominously snake-like had furrowed the parking lot.

"I certainly hope the inside of your hideout looks better than the outside," Crane muttered, stepping out of the car and going to the back to retrieve the unconscious Hatter.

"Oh, it's not a hideout," Ivy replied. "I just know some people... some people who owe me a favor."

"What? Who? Oof!" Jonathan found himself nearly smothered by Jervis Tetch's dead weight. Despite his relatively short stature, the Englishman was no lightweight. Trying to hoist his friend's unconscious form upright and shut the door at the same time, Crane thought that a few less biscuits and tea would certainly not damage the Hatter. "Gah! Who do you know?"

Poison Ivy half-turned, her auburn hair flowing gently in the late afternoon breeze, and watched the Scarecrow's struggle with no small amusement.

"Need help?" she ventured after a few seconds.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing this on my own, thank you very much!"

"All right. If you say so."

Poison Ivy shrugged, concealed a smile, and walked towards the back door of the shambling building. Behind her, the Scarecrow's grunts and exclamations grew louder as he tussled with Jervis' dead weight. The lanky villain was a master of psychology, parapsychology, and pharmacology. Removing heavy bodies from cars was not one of his strong suits; he usually left such matters to his muscled henchmen. The problem was compounded by the fact that, unlike a corpse or kidnap victim, the Mad Hatter was one of those extremely rare individuals Crane grudgingly considered friends. It was an odd sensation, having to care about the pain he caused another, and Scarecrow detested it.

Finally, Crane managed to right the Hatter's limp body and grip it firmly under the arms. The mad doctor was intelligent enough to recognize his own weakness; he lacked the upper body strength to attempt a fireman's carry, and bridal style was clearly out of the question. Thus, the only option left was the drag-the-victim-by-the-shoulders carry, a technique Batman had used on the Scarecrow multiple times after a fight.

"So where are we?" Crane asked through clenched teeth, dragging the Hatter's weight across the pavement and onto the sidewalk.

"The headquarters of EarthAction South Gotham," Poison Ivy replied. "Surely you've heard of it."

"The eco-terrorists?" snapped Crane. "I mean- wait- you-"

Ivy laughed. Placing her hand on the glass door, she sent curling tendrils of ivy across its smooth surface and under the crack. On the other side of the door, the waving vines carefully inserted themselves into the lock and began twisting.

"Oh, no, they're not my minions," Poison Ivy said. "More like a fan club. Or a group of like-minded individuals. It all amounts to the same thing."

The lock clicked and the door swung open. Poison Ivy calmly walked in, brushing pollen dust from her arms.

"We all love Mother Earth," Ivy explained, gesturing to a nearby bulletin board blanketed with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and environmental flyers. "When she thrives, we thrive. When she suffers, we suffer. And when she is in danger of being exploited by scumballs like Aster... we come to her defense."

"I see," Crane muttered, dragging the Hatter down the thinly-carpeted hall. He stared at the bulletin board; most prominent were a newspaper picture of Jeffrey Aster with a red X drawn through it, a full-page advertisement for Earth Peace sandals, and an enormous poster of a landfill proclaiming IT'S **YOUR **WORLD- HOW DO YOU WANT IT TO LOOK? TAKE ACTION NOW!

Suddenly, a door at the end of the hallway swung open and two well-muscled young men in tattered clothing leaped out. The leader, a short, buffed Hispanic, clutched a machine gun; the other held a joint.

"Andre!" Poison Ivy called, going to meet the gun-wielding leader. Andre immediately let the barrel of the gun droop towards the floor and smiled at Poison Ivy. "How good of you to meet us! How's your project on the landfill going?"

"Aw, Ivy, it's good to see you!" Andre said.

"Dude, check it out!" drawled Andre's companion, a stringy-haired blond in his early thirties. "It's Poison Ivy! Oh, man, I've seen you on TV. You're awesome."

Jonathan Crane snorted in disgust. The man was very clearly high- not that he should have been surprised. Andre seemed to suddenly become aware of this fact, and shifted uncomfortably.

"Lionel, man, take it in the bedroom," he directed, shoving his intoxicated friend back towards the door. "Sorry 'bout that. He's one of the new recruits and," Andre shrugged helplessly, "they do like their smokes."

"It doesn't bother me at all," Poison Ivy purred. "But where are my manners? Andre, this is one of my- colleagues. Meet Dr. Crane. Jonathan, this is Andre. He and I go way back."

Crane glared at the man- as if a stick-thin man in a scarecrow costume really needed introduction. In the back of his mind, Scarecrow stirred, sharing the doctor's indignation, but Crane focused on the task at hand.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Crane snapped acidly. "Do you have a bed where I could put him down? Or perhaps a couch. A table, even."

Andre stared open-mouthed at Crane and his burden before turning to Ivy, worried.

"Ivy- I don't know- you sure this is a good idea?" he asked. "I don't this guy."

"Hmm?" Ivy said, looking up. "Oh, come on, Andre. He's perfectly fine."

Crane gritted his teeth. _**Perfectly fine, eh? We'll see how "perfectly fine" Andre is once I get through with him...**_ Scarecrow whispered. Crane closed his eyes briefly and focused on remaining calm. _Not now. We can't afford to rile Ivy up yet- and no, I'm not afraid of her, but I'm not going to waste opportunities by making unnecessary enemies. _

"If you say so," Andre said, looking Crane over dubiously. Scarecrow grinned murderously. **_Nice to eat you. _**"But who's the stiff?"

"Jervis Tetch," Poison Ivy said, before Scarecrow could open his mouth. "You know. The Mad Hatter."

Andre's jaw dropped. Recovering, he swallowed hard, nodded without taking his eyes off Scarecrow, and pointed slowly to the door behind which Lionel had vanished.

"We, uh, we got a bed in there," he said. "Just let me kick Lionel out and it's all yours."

"Oh, could you?" Poison Ivy asked. "I can't tell you how much I'd appreciate it."

"Sure thing..."

_He'd better be quick about it, _Crane huffed. _My arms are starting to ache. _

**_Poor Jonny, _**Scarecrow replied mockingly. **_Here, let me kiss them and make them better. Or maybe... YOU COULD QUIT WHINING AND MAKE HIM SCREAM!_**

_I told you before-_

"Sorry about that, Crane," Poison Ivy interrupted, motioning to the door. "Let me help you."

"I told you, I've got it," Crane snapped. "I don't need any help, thank you very much."

Poison Ivy raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and stepped away.

"All right. If you're sure you've got it..."

"Of course I'm sure!"

Nothing galled Crane more than having his abilities questioned. Well, no, that wasn't technically true. Nothing galled Crane more than having his abilities questioned by someone he could not gas into insanity. And while Scarecrow might be daring enough to take a crack at the auburn-haired villainess, Crane had a pretty good idea that the fight would not end well for him.

Thus, the gangly villain was only too glad to drag Jervis into the bedroom and deposit him on the bed. It gave him (and Scarecrow) something to focus on besides his wounded dignity. After leaving the Hatter to rest in comparative peace on a king-sized bed arrayed in blaring colors, Crane looked around the room in disgust. While the rest of the building had moved into the twenty-first century, the bedroom had remained stalwartly planted in the early seventies. The walls were painted carrot orange, the curtains were eggplant purple with a sixteen-inch-long paisley print, and the wall contained three posters: one for the Tyler Rose Festival, one for HOT RATS!, one a larger print of the "It's Your World" landfill poster in the hallway, and one advocating the Age of Aquarius. Even through the mask, he could smell the sickly sweetness of mixed drugs and incense.

"Tetch is going to kill me for putting him here," he muttered, before beating a quick retreat to the less odoriferous regions of the building.

* * *

Sunlight streamed down through the trees, touching the leaves with gold and throwing soft, dancing shadows on the whiteness of the linen tablecloth. A few insects buzzed drowsily in the underbrush- _you may observe a bread-and-butterfly; its wings are thin slices of bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar- _and far off in the brush a nightingale was singing. It was the wrong sort of time for a nightingale to be singing, since the sun was shining (sulkily), but that hardly bothered Jervis Tetch. The clearing was warm with that heavy, sleepy, late afternoon warmth. The table was arrayed in white linen and shining silver, with no two teapots alike; the cups and saucers had apparently danced the cotillon in the dish-pan, and consequently traded partners several times; the tea was piping hot, and twenty-eight columns of steam rose into the summer sky.

But more importantly, She was there.

"Take some more tea, Alice dear," the Hatter said encouragingly.

Alice laughed, her voice tinkling like a little silver bell.

"I've had nothing yet," she said, "so I can't take more!"

"You mean," the Hatter said, beaming, "you can't take less. It's very easy to take more than nothing! Oh, Alice," he broke off with a sigh, "How I've missed you!"

Alice giggled. A beam of sunlight glanced through the leaves and gleamed bright and gold on her hair.

"Oh, Jervis," she said, pouring herself a cup of tea, "You're so funny!"

"What do you mean, Alice darling?" Jervis asked, cupping his hand on his chin.

"You're the one who said you can't take less," Alice pointed out. "Pass the butter, will you? Thanks."

Jervis happily reached for the butter-dish and handed it to Alice.

"It was the best butter," he commented. Alice took the dish and smiled at him.

"It still is."

Jervis beamed.

"But what do you mean, dear Alice?" he persisted. "You've got to take care of the sense, you know, and the sounds will take care of themselves."

"Oh! Of course," Alice rejoined, earnestly applying butter to a slice of sponge-cake. "But you said you missed me."

"I do," the Hatter sighed. "I have."

"Silly Jervis! Don't you know..." the piece of cake fell from Alice's hand, and she stood up, frowning, "...you can't miss what isn't there."

A shadow rolled across the tea-table. Jervis leaped up in alarm.

"Wait! Alice- no- wait! Alice!"

Jervis woke with a gasp. He was lying flat on his back someplace dark and lumpy and not particularly nice-smelling. His head ached enormously, and his whole body felt stiff and sore.

"Alice," he moaned softly.

"Awake at last, are you?"

Jervis flinched at the voice; he didn't know when his hearing had become so sensitive, but-

"Jervis. It's me, Crane. Open your eyes."

It hurt. And he didn't want to open his eyes. He wanted to dream again. He wanted to see Alice.

"Jervis, can you hear me?"

No, he couldn't hear anything. He was far away. He was... he was looking for the White Knight.

"I know you're awake. Open your eyes and quit acting."

Reluctantly, Jervis opened one eye a small slit. Someone was looming over him, someone tall and thin with a shock of ginger hair. He knew the name- it was on the tip of his tongue-

"March Hare," he croaked.

"Glad to see you're awake," Crane said, rolling his eyes. "Ivy and I broke into the hospital to murder someone. We saw you chained to a bed and took you with us. We're hiding out at Ivy's now. Any further questions?"

Jervis stared at him for a minute, then at the wall behind him. It was orange, and decorated with tiny flecks of green and purple, and distantly he recalled that that was unusual, but he couldn't bring himself to be surprised.

"Where's my hat?" he finally asked.

"I don't know. Arkham, I would assume. Listen, Jervis, I'm going to find that supercilious Riddler and **subject him to such horror as the world has never seen. **I thought you might- well- as a matter of honor. He did, after all, betray us both, the misbegotten miscreant," Crane replied.

Jervis stared at him for a moment, then began to sit up slowly. His head hurt immensely.

"Then I'll have one, please," he said, vaguely, "they mightn't be at all nice, you know."

"Oh... yes?" Crane said, uncertainly. "So you will come with me?"

"'I don't want to be anybody's prisoner,' Alice said," Tetch explained, still looking past the March Hare at the wall, which seemed to be growing taller and taller. "'I want to be Queen.'"

Crane looked at him for a moment, then nodded and stood up.

"Well, I'll let you rest for a bit then," he said. "I'll be back later. Don't worry."

Jervis Tetch did not answer or even look up as the Scarecrow left the room. He was looking at a picture of a large, littered, and grey landfill, and the words:

IT'S **YOUR **WORLD! HOW DO YOU WANT IT TO LOOK?

TAKE ACTION NOW!

A crooked grin began to form on Tetch's face as he traced the outline of each letter with his eyes.

"How, indeed?" he murmured.


	12. Oyez, Oyez

Summer Gleeson stared boldly into the camera, red hair swept back into a tight ponytail. Behind her, the Gotham Police Headquarters could be seen, surrounded by people picketing, jeering, shouting, and in general seeking media attention.

"In a shocking new development, billionaire Bruce Wayne has been arrested as a suspect in a homicide case. That's right, folks- Gotham's wealthiest citizen is being accused of murder. We now go live to the scene of the crime," Gleeson reported.

The television image flickered briefly before jumping to a blurry, shaky shot of a hallway in Gotham General Hospital. Glass lay scattered around the floor, and a team of police officers appeared to be engaged in dusting for fingerprints. The background was filled with the noisy, hard-edged chatter of the investigation team

"Wilkes, we gotta get that ID'd-"

"-it's Aster, Jeffrey Aster. Yeah, like the flower-"

"-was Poison Ivy doing here? Somebody get the lab-"

"-aw, $#&, somebody messed up big time-"

"-what's that? Hey, you! HEY, YOU! NO CAMERAS!"

The clip ended with a fast, blurry pan up to the ceiling and static. Summer Gleeson reappeared, still on the steps in front of Gotham Police Headquarters.

"Rumor has it Aster was involved in an illegal buyout with Star Labs, and Wayne strangled him to avoid compromising the WayneCorp labs. Here's Commissioner James Gordon on the subject. Commissioner, what do you think about the allegation that Wayne killed Aster over a business quarrel?"

Commissioner Gordon's mustached face filled the screen, squinting slightly in the sudden barrage of camera flashes.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that rumor, Miss Gleeson, and I would like to remind you that Bruce Wayne is merely a suspect in an ongoing investigation. Formal charges have yet to be leveled."

"Of course. What about the cause of death, what exactly was that? And what about the raging controversy over Wayne's innocence?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Gleeson, but I'm not at liberty to disclose details," Commissioner Gordon replied firmly. "I can only say that the perpetrator of this crime, whoever they may be, will be brought to justice. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a meeting with the councilman. You'll have to take this up with the investigating detective, Harvey Bullock."

"Thank you, Commissioner," nodded Summer Gleeson, turning back to the camera. "Behind me, you can see crowds of people mobbing the GPD Headquarters. Some of them protest Wayne's innocence. Others call for his conviction. But there's one thing for sure: all of them have an opinion."

The camera immediately cut to a shot of protesters on the steps, waving picket signs and holding banners which read FREE BRUCE WAYNE and WAYNE IS OKAY. A woman in a long dress was leading them in a chant. Suddenly, a man ran into the picture, shaking his fist.

"Wayne's guilty, don't you realize that!" he shouted. "I heard Aster was stabbed to death, and they found the knife in HIS room! I know what you're thinking- he's rich, he couldn't have done it! Well, he did!"

Summer Gleeson reappeared, poised and confidant.

"We'll bring you more on this situation as it progresses. Once again, this is Summer Gleeson, over and out."

The image vanished in a flash of white as the television was suddenly switched off. Edward Nigma had heard all he needed, or wanted, from the news channel. Reclining slightly in his faux-leather chair, he glanced out the window at the smoggy Gotham skyline. This was a relatively new hideout- actually, it was a legitimate apartment leased by one of his bodyguards. The hotel owners were elderly and incurious and spoke little English, and were only too glad to lease the penthouse suite of their struggling new apartment building. And while Joker or Jonathan Crane might shun the life of luxury, Nigma was a firm believer in rewarding oneself after a day of hard work. Or, merely rewarding oneself. Especially as it was well-deserved...

"What now, boss?"

Nigma glanced over his shoulder. It was one of his bodyguards, the third Mark, the one who had stayed with him the longest.

"What now?" he echoed. "Now, my dear Mark, we wait for Batman to make an appearance. Normally, I'd set a trap or two to lure him out, but I want a solid data set before I begin work on my ultimate and final Bat-trap. I can't afford... detection."

"But, boss..." the henchman hesitating, debating whether or not to press his luck, "what about Scarecrow? You know he's out to get you. The Arkham detail said he's been fixating on it... you know..."

The Riddler snorted contemptuously.

"Oh, please. Jonathan Crane may have some talent with chemical concoctions, but he's sadly lacking in street smarts. He couldn't locate me if I sent him a personalized invitation."

Thus having asserted himself, the Riddler spun around in his chair, humming "If Only I Had a Brain."

* * *

"Working late again, sir? I declare, you're as bad as Master Bruce."

Alfred descended the steps of the Batcave, a silver tray carefully balanced in one hand. The Bat-computer hummed and glowed, working through the latest chemical analysis; sitting pale and small in the glow of the consoles was Robin, looking uncannily like a boy behind his father's desk.

"What? Oh, it's you, Alfred," Robin sighed. Alfred carefully set the tray down and handed the Boy Wonder a cup of steaming liquid. "Thanks, Alfred. Wait, is this tea?"

"The best, sir."

Robin grinned, shrugged, and downed half the cup in a gulp. Immediately, he jolted upright and grabbed his throat.

"Whoa, that's hot!"

Alfred shook his head.

"I would have warned you, sir, but-"

"Analysis complete. Substance identified: _toxicodendron radicans pulverum. _Also known as poison ivy dust. Concentration four hundred parts per million. Warning: highly toxic," the computer interrupted.

"Analyzing the dust again? I thought the police had already made a positive identification," Alfred commented.

"Yeah, but there's an extremely high concentration of the spore dust around Aster's room," Robin said. "Same for the Hatter's."

"So it would appear that Poison Ivy targeted those two rooms," Alfred said thoughtfully. "The question is, why?"

"Aster was a businessman- maybe he, I don't know, dumped toxic waste in a river or something," Robin said. A newspaper clipping of Jeffrey Aster shaking hands with a business-suited Bruce Wayne popped up on the screen. Under the picture ran the caption "ASTER JOINS WAYNECORP FAMILY." Robin shook his head. "There's not much on him, enviromental-wise. In fact, there's not much on him, period. Do you think maybe Bruce would know?"

"Undoubtedly he would, sir. The problem would be arranging a time to see him."

"Oh, right. The no visitors thing. Well, the preliminary hearing's tomorrow- hopefully we can bail him out," Robin said, tapping busily at the console. "I mean, it's not like Bruce doesn't have the money for it."

* * *

Light filtered dimly through the high windows of the Gotham City Council Chamber, casting heavy shadows from the judge's high bench, the officious witness box, and the carved wood of the attorney's bar. Dark wood, sprinkled with a fine blanket of dust and aged to the color of shadow, lined every shelf, every railing, every bench, every table. From the wall above the bench, the stern visage of Lady Justice stared out, majestic and blind, in ebony and cherrywood. One could almost feel the years of history, of tradition, that lay heavy upon the old courtroom.

Unless, of course, one was a news-seeking television anchor from Gotham Live.

"Excuse me! Judge Surillo? Do you have a minute?" Summer Gleeson called, elbowing her way through the masses of people hurrying into the courtroom. The Aster murder case was of no little interest to the public, and it seemed that half of Gotham had taken a sudden and intense interest in the study of court proceedings. "Judge Surillo!"

Justice Janet Surillo, a dark-haired woman in her midforties, pressed ahead without looking back. It was bad enough that a simple case of determining bail should be turned into public entertainment; the media could only make things worse. Just behind Surillo's flowing robe, and before Summer Gleeson and her cameraman, a gaggle of young, rather plain women formed a weeping, sniffling, chattering, tittering roadblock. Half appeared to be convinced of Bruce Wayne's guilt; the other half were steadfastly convinced of his innocence. All agreed on his eligibility.

"Order! There will be order in the court!" barked a stiff-mustached officer, motioning the women towards the gallery. "This is not a circus! Citizens will please take their seats in the gallery!"

Reluctantly, the citizens in question began to make their way back to the stiff, hard-backed pews, and immediately encountered resistance from previously seated citizens who had claimed the first two rows. A dispute broke out, and several officers of the court were called in to break it up. Judge Surillo, mounting the bench, sighed and placed a hand to her forehead, only to be half-blinded by the flash of a newspaper camera. It was a wonderful start to the day.

Ninety minutes later, the public had finally been seated (or left to stand, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, in the hallway) and fallen silent. Judge Surillo nodded slightly to the bailiff, and the prisoner was escorted in.

There was a low murmur from the gallery as Bruce Wayne made his way to the seat of the accused, hands handcuffed securely in front of him. The billionaire did not appear to have slept well, and sat down heavily before requesting some coffee from his attorney. Cue many camera flashes and dramatic sniffles from the gallery. The bailiff came forward, rattled off the case specifics and charges, and ended with,

"As this case is of particular interest to the general public, may I remind everyone who is present that the object of this case is not to determine guilt, but to determine bail. Thank you."

At the defendant's table, Dick Grayson was seen to yawn enormously.

* * *

"...furthermore, Bruce Wayne has proven himself a flight risk at a previous time of incarceration, namely during the assault litigations of Lucius Fox..."

"...yeah, Wayne's a suspect in a homicide... I would say he is our main suspect, though, ya know, we're still lookin' into the thing..."

"...must consider the psychological profile of the defendant, which is one of a reckless, extremely determined individual accustomed to having everything his own way..."

"...numerous traffic violations, indicating a lack of respect for the law..."

"...additionally, Wayne's considerable wealth and investment in the Gotham economy makes the court hard-pressed to set bail, as an inordinately high amount would damage local monetary interest, rather than impressing upon the defendant the consequences of his actions..."

Justice Surillo brought her hammer down with a bang.

"The Court has reached a decision," she announced. "Having considered the available facts and weighed both sides of the argument, we have concluded that, in this instance, the defendant must be denied bail altogether."

The gavel banged one more time, and instantly the court broke out into a tumultuous roar as every man, woman, and child began to speak at once. Justice Surillo sighed, closed her eyes, and headed for the door. She was getting too old for this job.

* * *

_"Justice Janet Surillo, a dark-haired woman in her midforties..." _...appears in _The Dark Knight. _I merely brought her in because the DCAU has precious few named judges.


	13. Further Adventures of Jonny and Pammy

A dark cloud hung over Gotham, fouling the air and tinting the sky a deep red. Eddies of cold wind swirled through the smog, carrying it into the heart of Gotham where it snaked down the crowded streets, dissipating among the masses of citizens on their way to work. There was a collective gasp, which turned into a low murmur of whimpers and groans and exclamations, which rose gradually, beautifully, to a roar of panic. The city began to scream. Terror fanned out through the crowd, and fear-crazed citizens ran helter-skelter down the smoggy, foggy streets, shrieking their nightmares to a blood-red sky. It was indeed a sight to behold. The Scarecrow raised his thin arms high and began to laugh. The fools, the fools! This was indeed the day of-

"Crane. _Crane! _Get up. Come on, I'm not going to ask twice."

Jonathan Crane groaned, rolled over, and slowly, reluctantly, left the confines of a beautiful dream. Opening his eyes, he beheld a blurry Poison Ivy standing over him, arms crossed impatiently.

"It's about time," Ivy remarked. "Jervis Tetch is missing."

That got Crane's attention.

"What?"

"He left about four hours ago, while you were sleeping," Poison Ivy continued. "But first he knocked out Andre and broke into the greenhouse." Ivy's emerald eyes narrowed dangerously. "He stole four of my beautiful purple dream flowers, the good ones I was saving for Mayor Hill and Bruce Wayne. I worked for months on those bulbs! Fortunately," she recalled, cooling down slightly, "he had the good sense not to hurt my poor babies." An herbaceous tentacle twined gently around Ivy's outstretched hand.

Crane groaned and put a hand to his forehead.

"I'll- get right on it," he sighed, heaving himself up.

"I'm coming with you," Ivy stated. "Those flowers are dangerous- and valuable. I don't want Batman getting his hands on them- you know how bothersome he is, always devising antidotes beforehand. And speaking of which..." she tossed something light and soft and made of burlap onto Crane's chest. "You'll need this. If the buds have bloomed, they'll be almost as potent as at the hospital."

Pulling the mask over his face, Crane sat up quickly and checked his toxin canister supply. Poison Ivy stood at the end of the ex-professor's makeshift bed, tapping her foot impatiently.

"So, which way did he go?" the straw man asked, standing up and heading for the door.

"Out the back. After that, I lost track of him," Ivy replied. "He went someplace dark and hard, someplace without dirt or water or sun..."

"You saw this?" Crane asked incredulously.

Poison Ivy shrugged.

"In a way."

Crane shook his head, muttering to himself.

"Well, then... can you... I don't know, follow a spore trail or something?" he snapped.

"I could, if these weren't specially designed," Poison Ivy countered. "The spores die off after two hours. It... eliminates evidence."

The villainous twosome turned the corner at Rosebud Avenue and headed down 42nd Street. It was a dingy, decaying part of town; open Dumpsters exuded a strong stench, trash littered the streets, and rats scampered boldly along the sidewalk. The businesses in this quarter of Gotham mainly consisted of liquor stores, all night quickie marts, pawnshops, and card halls, along with the odd unmarked building which stayed closed all day and open all night. A homeless wino stared dully out from behind a dumpster; as Crane and Ivy approached, he suddenly woke up and retreated hastily to the far end of his alley.

Jonathan Crane surveyed the street with unconcealed disgust. As far as he could see, there were no tea houses, no bookstores, no hat shops, no manufacturers of custom lawn figurines- no reason for the Hatter to have turned down this street at all. Turning to Poison Ivy, he was about to say as much when the beautiful villainess's head whipped up. Her eyes locked on something beyond Crane and narrowed to deadly green slits. Crane got the distinct impression he was watching a lioness scent its natural prey. Turning, he followed Ivy's glare, curious to see what she had spotted. He saw it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Scarecrow began cackling with malicious glee. Jonathan Crane almost- _almost_- felt sorry for the poor man.

About half a block away, a pimp was coming down the street.

He was dressed in a glittering, sparkling purple hat with a zebra-print band. The man's suit was a bright, velvet, tickle-me-Elmo red, with black fur at the cuffs and lapels. The man twirled a fancy gold-handled cane from one hand and held a green glass bottle in the other. Even from where he stood, Jonathan could make out the glint of gold chains and silver rings as the man lifted one hand to swig something from the bottle. The man looked like he'd dressed to make the cover of _Pimp Monthly, _and almost won.

Scarecrow's laughter doubled as Poison Ivy stepped around Jonathan and began striding purposefully across the street towards the jewel-bedecked, stick-swinging, completely and totally obnoxiously dressed exploiter of women.

Somehow, the pimp failed to notice his doom approaching, and tilted his head back to take a long swallow of whatever was in the bottle before tossing it towards a nearby dumpster. The bottle missed and shattered on the ground. Suddenly, the man found himself dangling off the ground. There was a sickening thud as he was slammed against the dumpster side and held there by a strong, feminine, green-gloved hand. The pimp looked up and beheld Poison Ivy.

His jaw dropped, his eyes nearly doubled, and he almost started hyperventilating. He feared Ivy more than he feared the cops, Batman, or Freddy Krueger on a dark night. In fact, she probably topped his list of people he never, ever, _ever _wanted to meet in person. Behind Ivy, Crane could no longer hold in a snigger.

"Hello there," Poison Ivy breathed. "Nice flower you've got. Where'd you find it?"

**_Flower? _**Crane did a double-take. Sure enough, the pimp had a large, rather ostentatious purple flower jammed into his buttonhole.

"Erm."

"Never heard of it. Why don't you just tell me where you got it and I can let you down from here, free to go your own way?" Poison Ivy continued.

The pimp swallowed hard, his eyes going from Ivy to Scarecrow. The spindly villain cackled, drinking in the man's fear. If the poorly-dressed pimp thought he would get mercy from the Master of Fear, he was sorely mistaken.

"Well...?" Poison Ivy prompted.

"Okay, okay! Look, I didn't... I was just out walkin', ya know? And I saw it on the ground. I didn't pick it, I swear! I just saw it and... look, you don't have to kill me. I have money. Lots of money."

"I wouldn't have guessed," Ivy said. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"Aaaaah! No! No, please! I found it... I-I found it..." the pimp was having trouble staying coherent now. "The corner of 42nd and White! Look, please, I've got a wife and kid!"

"She should be ashamed of herself," Poison Ivy muttered. "Well, I guess that covers it." She lowered the pimp to the ground and wiped her hands on her costume. The man looked at her, bewildered. Poison Ivy smiled venomously, placed a hand to her lips, and blew him a kiss. "Buh-bye."

Suddenly, the large purple blossom in the pimp's buttonhole sprang to life. Twisting and twining, it wound its way over the gaudy faux-fur lapel towards the pimp's face until, in one violent wrench, it reached his mouth. The man had time for one panicked shriek before the flower's sickly purple-pink petals latched onto his nose and mouth. The pimp's eyes rolled heavenward, and he slumped to the ground.

**"Mistress Mary, quite contrary... _how _does your garden grow?" **Scarecrow inquired, still basking in the glow of the man's terror. Poison Ivy laughed.

"_Toxicodendron florirentibus somniaremortis," _she replied. "It's something I've been working on. The flower induces a euphoric dream state while the plant itself copies the victim's genetic code and produces a vegetative biomimetic replica- essentially the twin of the victim."

"So you could create plant-based copies of anyone in Gotham," Crane said with grudging respect.

"Excellent work, doctor. I call them nature's little mimics," Poison Ivy replied. "Of course, this bloom is unattached to the mother plant, so it will just send our fashionable friend off into la-la land. In this part of town, he'll be missing his wallet, his keys, and his dignity by the time he wakes up."

Poison Ivy crossed her arms proudly and shook her head, long red hair rippling down her back.

"A just fate for a shameless exploiter of innocent women!"

Crane wasn't sure those women were _innocent_ per se, but he didn't really care. Any day Scarecrow got to see a grown man almost wet himself- without fear toxin, no less- was a good day.

Unless, of course, it was ruined by the unexpected appearance of a certain scarlet-clad crimefighter. One moment, Scarecrow was cackling over a helpless man writhing in terror; the next, something heavy and solid and not at all pleasant had dropped onto his shoulders like a load of bricks from heaven. Time seemed to slow down, and Crane felt something pop alarmingly as Robin's weight descended fully onto his bony shoulder. Crane cursed silently as his frail frame was ploughed to the hard, unforgiving concrete. Why did vigilantes think it dramatic, even sporting to leap from tall heights onto unsuspecting villains? Despite the Dynamic Duo's so-called ethical code, Crane felt sure it constituted some sort of unreasonable torture. And then, to add insult to injury, Robin rebounded off the Scarecrow's prone body and landed oh-so-confidentally in front of Poison Ivy.

"Just thought I'd drop in," Robin said. Crane could only moan and hope for swift and painful retribution on Poison Ivy's part.

The beautiful villainess stepped back, lips twisting into a sneer.

"How thoughtful! But do you know what I do to little birds who harass my garden?" Ivy's eyes narrowed, her fists clenched, and she growled, "I TURN THEM INTO FERTILIZER!"

She took a mighty swing at Robin, who easily ducked, aimed a roundhouse kick at him and caught him on the chin- much to Scarecrow's delight- and sent the Boy Wonder reeling backwards into the overflowing dumpster. Robin appeared to be massaging a sore jaw and reaching for something from his belt. Suddenly, he flung a whirling bola at Poison Ivy. The bola wrapped itself around Ivy's perfect form, and she stumbled backwards.

"It's over, Ivy!" Robin shouted, pushing himself off the dumpster and rushing to subdue Poison Ivy before she snapped the bola.

That was when Scarecrow surprised everyone by getting to his feet and dousing the entire area with fear toxin. Robin, Poison Ivy, the motionless pimp, and Scarecrow disappeared into a thick, noxious brown fog. Robin gasped and began to whimper; Poison Ivy flexed her arms and snapped the bola ropes like thread. Seizing Crane by the hand, she yanked him forward and started running down the street.

"Great work, Crane, now let's get out of here!"

**"What? He is completely helpless-"**

"Before Daddy Bat shows up!"

That made sense. Crane swallowed his boast and hurried to catch up with Poison Ivy. He could watch Robin's pitiful writhings later, on TV, after they had reclaimed the missing Mad Hatter and returned to a safe hideout.


	14. It's My Own Invention

Robin staggered backwards, choking on the thick, sour smell as the world began to spiral around him. There was blood on the wall and blood on the ground; a few feet away lay a corpse still dressed in a long black cape. The cowl had been pulled back, and Bruce Wayne stared unseeingly up at the sky, blood running from the gaping bullet hole in his forehead.

Batman was dead. And it was all Robin's fault. He wanted to lie down, just fall down on the ground and never get up, hug his knees to his chest and shake and-

_The antidote. _

The thought came from some faraway, disconnected, still-rational part of his brain, and Robin forced himself to turn away from the remains of Batman and grope, hands shaking, for the small vial which contained the antidote to Crane's fear toxin.

Luckily, the gangly villain hadn't switched recipes. A few seconds after injection, the pool of blood on the sidewalk began to waver and shimmer and dissipate. The thick mantle of dread lifted with it; the unmasked corpse of Batman became the unconscious form of an unlucky gangster, and the splattered blood on the brick turned into Krazy Klown graffiti. Robin breathed a long sigh of relief.

"You'll pay for this one, Scarecrow," he muttered, still trying to collect his shattered nerves. Normally, he would make some light comment or tease Batman- but his mentor was absent. It made it all much worse.

_I let him down. I let him die. Oh, god, what if it really happens? I don't think I could go on._

Robin shook his head, trying to shake off the thoughts. No, no, it was just an aftereffect of the toxin. He had to focus, to get moving, to start hunting down Scarecrow and Poison Ivy... this was no time for personal weakness or doubts. The effect would wear off, he would find and arrest the villains, and there absolutely no reason to go to Bruce. He had this all under control. He could do it, all by himself, easy, no doubt about it...

* * *

"...and I just don't know what to do," Dick Grayson sighed. "The... family business... is getting out of hand. I actually found two of our, um, _investors _but they slipped off... I couldn't find them again, and I just... had to see you."

A few feet of space and three inches of bulletproof glass away, Bruce Wayne nodded and held the prison interview phone closer to his ear.

"I understand," he said. "But this is no time for weakness... Dick. Wayne Industries needs you. Gotham needs you."

"I know, I know! I just... don't know where to go from here." Dick kept his eyes carefully focused on the aging, dented Formica of the interview countertop. He was asking for help, something he'd learned his mentor never took lightly. _C'mon, Bruce. I really could use a clue here. Yeah, I know it's my test run, but I'm really truly at a dead end. Have mercy and give a fellow crimefighter a break. _

"So why are you here?"

Ouch. There would be no mercy today.

"I... I'm asking you for help," Robin said.

Bruce leaned back and narrowed his eyes menacingly.

"Seriously, Bruce! I can't do this!" Dick protested. "I wouldn't be asking for help unless I was really stuck!"

Bruce appeared to consider this for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Then,

"The computer. All of Wayne Industries' records are on the computer. So are LexCorp's. You can use it to cross-search Aster's involvement over the past two quarters."

"The computer, got it. Thanks a million, Bruce," Dick nodded.

Bruce merely nodded.

"Oh, and next time... call me when it's important."

* * *

Jonathan Crane was not a happy man. It had been forty minutes since the run-in with little Robin Red-breast, and there was still no sign of the missing Hatter, though Ivy insisted she could feel her "babies" somewhere near. The pimp's information had led the villainous twosome into an even seedier part of town, where only a few limp leaves remained as evidence that one of Poison Ivy's plants had ever been present. There was no sign of the missing Mad Hatter. Additionally, Crane had the sneaking suspicion that Robin had the fear gas antidote, and it would only be a matter of time before he, or the Batman, was on Scarecrow's trail again.

He would have complained about the situation... but, on reflection, the search for Jervis Tetch was largely his own endeavour. Tetch, after all, was his... associate. Ivy was just along for the bulbs.

_**Oh Jonny... notice anything interesting?**_

Crane scanned the street once more, frowning. _Not particularly. There's nothing on this street even remotely connected to Wonderland... or even Alice. _He could almost feel Scarecrow's exasperated sigh. **_"Marty Slack's Computer Repair Shack?" You know, there's more that goes on in Hattie's nut than _how doth the little crocodile improve his shining scales...**

Crane abruptly switched directions and headed across the street for the computer repair shop. It was a small, dingy building with a large, obnoxious sign in the window reading "GOT A HACKER? CALL THE SLACKER! WILL WORK FOR U NO QUESTIONS ASKED." A digitalized sign over the door flashed OPEN, OPEN, COME ON IN over and over again, and the glass door was decorated with childishly cartoonish penguin stickers. Crane was in no mood to trifle with computer geeks, slackers or otherwise. He threw the door open with a bang.

The employee at the counter didn't seem to notice. He had his back to the door, and the tinny sounds of explosions and electronic music blasted out from his computer console. Crane crossed the room in three broad strides and seized the man by the collar.

The man's eyes were shut, the lower half of his face covered by a pale purple-pink flower that had reached out with choking petals to cover his mouth and nose. Crane instinctively recoiled and dropped the man's body.

"Crane? What is it?"

Poison Ivy came in the door, sized up the situation, and...

"Ooooooh! He _didn't!"_

Swiftly kneeling beside the felled computer repairman, Poison Ivy reached for the slender stem of the flower. It twined away, green and vibrant, for about eighteen inches before vanishing into a plastic clamp box. A plastic-coated wire ran out the other side of the box and into the computer. Ivy drew in a long breath.

"My poor baby..."

"You can't think how glad I am to see you again!" a low, clear, British voice interrupted. The Mad Hatter strolled out of the back room, beaming proudly and brandishing a screwdriver and a dentist's hook. Turning to Poison Ivy, he bowed slightly and added, "A fine day, Your Majesty. -But Jonathan, look! It's my own invention." He pointed proudly to the flower covering the employee's face.

"_Your _invention?" Poison Ivy snapped, rising from the floor.

"Er... keep your temper," the Mad Hatter said quickly. "I'm a poor man, Your Majesty." Then, suddenly lucid, "These flowers- they're really quite wonderful. Jonathan, you must come see this. The spores release a type of psychoactive pleasure drug, do they not? A pleasurable neurotoxin... but look at this. The genius of it all! They're a sort of imaging receptor- a tiny little information transmitter. All it takes is a little electronic tweaking and..." the Hatter reached over and pressed a button on the computer. "They're off to Wonderland!"

The computer screen flickered, turned blue, and suddenly cut to a scene straight from Lewis Carroll's beloved book. Grass blades, magnified to the size of tree trunks, filled the screen. A toothy, spectral grin flickered against the green and disappeared again. An enormous mushroom, spotted with leprous white and green, filled one-half of the screen, and atop it perched a long, fat thing like an overstuffed sausage with insectile legs. As Crane and Ivy watched, the grass blades parted, and the bewildered computer repairman stepped out.

"This is weird, man," he muttered.

Jervis Tetch smiled modestly and bowed.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he sighed. "So much easier than the dream machine! And just watch this-" Tetch took control of the mouse, minimized Wonderland, and brought up an empty black screen quickly filling with glowing green numbers. "I control his mind in the meantime! Currently, this boorish fellow is using his neglected intellect to hack the Gotham Bank accounts! I must say, Miss Ivy, the blooms were a burst of-"

"They're better than you think, Tetch," Ivy interrupted. "When attached to the mother plant, they can spawn a vegetative biomimetic plant slave. Or they would have been able to if you hadn't murdered them!"

"Murder? Me? Oh, good heaven, no!" Jervis shook his head emphatically. "They're quite alive- a bit of technological wizardry- merely interfacing with the computer and feeding off a water siphon. But you say... biomimetic plant slaves? Brilliant! The garden of live flowers..."

Poison Ivy smiled.

"Well, yes, that is the idea..."

"While I hate to burst in on this touching scene of mutual admiration," Crane interrupted sarcastically, "the Batman will be on our tracks by now, not to mention Bat Junior and possibly the- er- female as well. It's high time we were on our way."

"I don't know what you mean by _your _way," Tetch replied mildly. "All the ways about here belong to- _her." _And he nodded at Poison Ivy.

"Oh?" Poison Ivy said, arching an eyebrow.

"It's quite true," the Hatter continued on, blissfully unaware. "'All ways are the queen's ways'- it's the general rule."

To Crane's great surprise, Poison Ivy threw back her head and laughed.

* * *

I forgot to credit in the last chapter, but Poison Ivy's flowers are quite shamelessly taken from "The Batman" episode "Fleurs du Mal."

The Carroll quotes in this chapter are from "Through the Looking-glass"... specifically, from the chapter "The Garden of Live Flowers."


	15. Lex Luthor Deals Himself In

The sun was just breaking over the horizon, streaking the golden sky with pink and orange and flickering white on the skyscraper windows of the city below. The sounds of a city waking up wafted in through the high windows on the morning breeze: a newspaper boy's bicycle bell, the cheerful conversation of two men on their way to work, the low, sweet cries of a flock of pigeons wheeling about the tower. The scent of coffee and cinnamon filled the air as an aide hurried in with a steaming mug and sticky roll, still warm from the local bakery. It was a beautiful morning.

"Good news, boss!"

Startled from his reverie, Lex Luthor turned to see his bodyguard bouncing in with the day's papers under one arm.

"Miss Graves," he said, voice low and sonorous. "How... unexpected." Then, with a flash of malice, "Is it Corben? Has he... is he ready yet?"

"Sorry... Dr. Vale's still working out the bugs," Mercy replied. "But just look at this."

So saying, she unrolled one of the papers and spread it onto her boss's desk. The headline read "BRUCE WAYNE: MURDERER?: Billionaire jailed on homicide charges, awaits trial." Luthor glanced at the byline- no doubt another one of Kent's puff pieces- before recalling, oddly, that the paper was based out of Gotham. His eyes jumped eagerly to the article, and he read out loud, quickly,

"Billionaire Bruce Wayne... long lauded for community service, etc, etc- oh, God, not another boy scout... arrested and charged for murder- that's a bit better... WayneCorp bigwig Jeffrey Aster... hmmm... _no known motive. _Ah."

He stopped and leaned back in the padded chair, thoughtful. The joyful, distant shouts of two boys playing in the streets wafted in through the open windows. Mercy thoughtfully moved to shut them.

"It is good news," Luthor said at last, and Mercy smiled and sighed with relief. "They haven't linked us- or, should I say, Miss Kowalski- to Aster yet, though I'm sure they will eventually. I've heard great things about Gotham's famous masked detective. I doubt he'll stay out of this."

"I know he won't, _Luthor," _came a familiar voice, and Luthor's hands suddenly clenched.

Turning, he kept his face carefully neutral with an effort, and saw... _him. _Perched just inside the re-opened windows, cape flowing gently in the early morning breeze, that little curl of hair falling into his forehead... Luthor clenched his jaw to avoid snarling with rage and hatred. How did he do it? How did he manage to stand there, arms akimbo across a perfectly muscled chest, framed in a blaze of glory from the rising sun, invulnerable and undamagable and powerful beyond the likes of mortal man, and make it all look so... so effortless? He was the Savior of Metropolis, the Last Son of Krypton, the Man of Steel, the all-American hero. But how did he manage to be so _perfect_? His body was nigh-invulnerable on a molecular level; how did he manage to fill out that suit in all the right places? He was an alien being, born on another planet and hurled through space in his infancy; how did he manage to keep that perfect complexion? He had walked out of Luthor's latest death-trap smiling and shrugging and not even breaking a sweat. Two billion Newtons of nuclear force, and not even his coiffure was disturbed.

"Superman," Luthor ground out.

The Man of Steel frowned at Luthor, uncrossed his arms, and placed one hand on the industrialist's desk in easy insolence.

"I know about your plan to buy out Wayne's labs," he said.

"Of course," Luthor said, leaning back in his chair and spreading his arms out. "I don't deny it. It's all perfectly legal, Superman. I have nothing to hide."

Superman didn't deign to answer that, and Luthor pressed on, emboldened.

"So, of course, unless you want to be charged with harassment, you'll get out of my office and stay out of my business."

Superman's frown deepened. He straightened up, hovering effortlessly a few feet off the ground- Luthor ground his teeth together- and pointed at the scientist.

"As long as this business stays out of Metropolis, I will," Superman proclaimed. "But- a word of warning. You were right when you said Batman wouldn't stay out of your affairs if you take your crooked dealings to Gotham City."

"So what?" snapped Luthor.

"So, if you're trying to take Gotham... you may have bitten off more than you can chew. Besides, Gotham City isn't like Metropolis. There's crime and chaos in the streets every day of the week, and it can be a dangerous place. Especially at night."

"Get out!" Luthor boomed. "Get out before I call security!"

In a flash of red and blue, he was gone. Luthor turned to Mercy Graves, his face white with quiet fury.

"Miss Graves," he said in a low, controlled tone. "Please shut the windows."

* * *

Thunder boomed overhead as rain pelted the windows of the limousine, turning the outside world into an undiscernible grey smudge. Rain rattled down the windows and hammered on the roof. It filled the silence with the sound of endless tapping and briefly lit the interior of the limo with white lightning before the next crash of thunder. Lex Luthor sat in the back, spine straight and eyes half-closed in stoic meditation. Superman's warning still chafed at him; he would not allow himself to become disheartened by something as insignificant as a thunderstorm. There were things which needed attending to, and swiftly... he needed to see Bruce Wayne, he needed to arrange for a second hotel room, and he needed to formulate a legal plan of action for dealing with the Dark Knight.

The sudden blare of a car horn startled him; the chauffeur carefully removed his company hat, rolled down the driver's side window, stuck his head out, and screamed a long stream of profanity at the errant driver. Then, putting his head back into the limousine, he turned back to Luthor and said, apologetically,

"Sorry 'bout that, sir. Those #$#$ #$# don't know what they're #$%# doing."

"Pray don't mention it," Luthor said dryly.

By the time the limousine pulled up in front of the Vreeland Hotel, the storm had passed into sullen rain with faint mutterings and grumblings from the clouds. Luthor stepped out of the limo and was unpleasantly struck by how grey everything was. The sidewalks were a dull, rain-soaked grey, the sky a black and stormy grey, the hotel itself a lighter ash color with slate roofing and-

"Are those gargoyles?" Luthor asked, surprising even himself.

"Sure they are," the chauffeur said. "What, you new to Gotham or something?"

"You might say that," said Luthor.

"Aw, well, you'll love the Vreeland. Classic historic Gotham, founded by Colonel Vreeland himself in the early 1800's just before the early massacres," the chauffeur said enthusiastically. "Just, eh, stay out of the allies after dark. _You _know." He winked suggestively at Luthor.

Luthor glanced at the man quizzically.

"You've been in Gotham a long time," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Sure thing," nodded the chauffeur. "I'm one of the originals!" He chuckled at his own joke, shaking his head. "Yep, I've seen it all. Ya know one week I ended up working for Two-Face himself? Course I didn't know it was him when I signed the contract... lucky for me, I won the coin toss."

"Really," Luthor said conversationally. "Any other notables?"

"Ah... well..." the chauffeur sighed. "There was this one time I drove some guy in a suit. Thought he might have been the Ventriloquist... don't know for sure, I never really looked in the back. Good for business, ya know. Less questions asked the better."

"What about legal notables?" persisted Luthor. "Bruce Wayne, for instance?"

"Naw, he uses his own limo," the chauffeur said off-handedly. "When he uses a limo, that it. God! he's got a nice car. Drives it through the streets like wildfire... I'd like to have a car like that myself. One day, maybe, when I'm rich and famous... you'll see me driving a turbo, all dressed up in m'Sunday best, eating at the Iceberg every night."

"The Iceberg?" Luthor echoed. "Oswald Cobblepot's Iceberg Lounge? I've heard of that before..."

"Oh yeah," the chauffeur grinned. "Best joint in town. I mean, it's a fine establishment. Just gotta watch out for the freaks. Every once in a while, one of them sneaks in."

"Really?" Luthor was intrigued. "Tell me more..."

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge was, indeed, a fine establishment and famous restaurant of Gotham City. When tourists looked at Gotham Travel brochures, they were invariably instructed to tour the Vreeland Museum, drive by the Wayne Manor, visit the Riddle of the Minotaur Theme Park, and eat at the Iceberg Lounge. Founded, owned, and managed by Oswald Cobbleplot, the Iceberg had become an icon of the time, an expensive, exclusive lounge where Gotham's elite- and high-paying- could relax, dine on fine seafood, mingle, and occasionally brush shoulders with a Rogue. It offered all the comfort of an elite nightclub with the added excitement of mingling with Gotham's most wanted.

Lex Luthor stepped into the Iceberg Lounge and was immediately met by a beautiful blonde girl in a low-cut tuxedo and fashionable miniskirt. She greeted him stiffly and asked for his card, which she bore away into a back room on a silver platter; when she returned, she was smiling and followed by a short, overweight man in a very expensive suit and monocle.

"Greetings, Mr. Luthor, and welcome to my modest abode," the man said, and Luthor realized with a slight start that this must be Cobblepot himself.

"Mr. Cobblepot, I presume?" he said formally.

"Quite right, quite right," Cobblepot said hurriedly. "And this must be your enchanting-"

"My bodyguard."

Cobblepot froze in the act of kissing Mercy's hand.

"Lovely place you have here," Luthor said, pretending not to notice. "See a lot of business?"

"Enough to feather my nest," Cobblepot replied. "But surely you'd be bored by an old bird like me. My exquisite aide, Alicia, will be more than happy-"

"Thank you, but I can provide my own... entertainment," Luthor said, with an ironical glance at Mercy. "A table for two will do."

The Penguin bowed again and motioned to the tuxedoed woman, who smiled gracefully and escorted Luthor and Mercy to a small, circular table on the main floor. A few feet away sat a large pool, filled with icy water and smelling faintly of salt. An enormous artificial iceberg floated in the water, and Luthor recognized at least five different species of penguins scuttling over its slippery surface. Clearly, Oswald Cobblepot spared no expense.

"I have to say, I am impressed," he commented to Mercy.

"Yeah, it's nice place," she said grudgingly. "A little too fishy for my tastes."

Luthor merely raised his eyebrows and accepted a complimentary cocktail beverage from the blonde woman without comment. Somewhere, a band was playing cool jazz. It was well-played and well-balanced; Luthor relaxed a little and sipped the cocktail. He could come to appreciate a place like the Iceberg in Metropolis...

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing at the door- are you really Lex Luthor?"

Luthor turned. A man of average height, dressed in a bottle-green suit coat and matching bowler hat and carrying a magnificent gold-topped cane, was standing a few feet away. The hat cast a shadow over most of his face, but Luthor could tell the man was smiling.

"And who might you be?" he inquired coolly.

"Ah, forgive me- my card," the man said. He reached into a breast pocket- Luthor blinked at the man's pale lavendar gloves- and extracted a small rectangle of cardboard, which he tossed idly onto the glassy table. "Read it."

Intrigued, Luthor picked up the card and read,

"E. NIGMA." Glancing up, he commented, "I've heard of you. They call you the Riddler, do they not?"

"They call me whatever they like," Nigma replied with a tight smile. "But it's not my identity which is called into question at the moment. Think! My first is in bed but not dead, my second's the first of them all, my third is what turns, takes, and throws, my fourth's two humps in a row, my fifth's the second, twice used; the last is the first part of 'no.'"

Luthor pondered that for a moment before replying, calmly,

"I assure you, Mr. -Nigma, I am fully aware of Batman's presence in this city."

The Riddler shook his head in mock pity.

"Wrong answer," he smirked. "But- what if I could guarantee you that the Dark Knight won't be seen for, say, three or four weeks? Perhaps longer..." he snickered softly before catching himself. "What would you give me for that?"

Luthor raised an eyebrow.

"What if you fail?"

"I won't," the Riddler said.

"I'm a businessman, Mr. Nigma. I don't take risks without putting a cap on my potential losses."

"Oh, very well. If I fail- which, of course, I will not- I will return your money."

"I'm sure you will," Luthor muttered. "Very well, Mr. Nigma, I accept your offer, and am willing to pay- half a million dollars. However, you must keep Batman off the streets for the duration of the Wayne trial. Understood?"

To Luthor's bewilderment, Edward Nigma threw his head back and laughed.

* * *

_Is Corben ready yet?- _In "Superman: the Animated Series," John Corben was tranformed into the kryptonite-powered cyborg Metallo by Lex Luthor, who planned to use Corben against Superman.

Also, I forgot last chapter to credit Marty Slack the hacker... who appears in "The Batman" episode "The Metal Face of Comedy."

Many thanks to Leonca, who spotted three typos in this chapter... I swear, I don't know how the little buggers keep getting in.


	16. The World's SecondBest Detective

"Sir? Oh, not again."

Alfred shook his head disparagingly, his shadow following him silently down the long set of stairs into the Batcave. Somewhere in the stalagmited darkness, there was a brief hiss and squeaking sound; the butler ignored it and placed a hand on the caped shoulder of the boy slumped before the computer. His head drooped forward onto the console, forehead lit with a cold electronic paleness and face buried in the shadowy crook of an elbow. It was a pose Alfred had seen modeled many times before. Suppressing a smile, he gently shook Dick's shoulder. The boy shifted slightly, sighed, and opened one eye. The mask had slipped sideways and pulled away from the face; more than ever, Alfred was struck by the youthfulness of Robin's face. Still the Boy Wonder, not yet a man...

"Alfred?" Dick asked, still sleepy. Then, eyes widening, "I didn't miss anything, did I? I'm awake, promise..."

"No, you didn't miss anything, unless you count the nocturnal activity of the cave's other inhabitants," Alfred reassured him. "Speaking of which... bats may be active during the night, but I believe birds prefer to use the time for sleeping."

Dick cracked a weary smile and shrugged.

"Good point," he said. "But sometimes even robins have to fly by night." Turning back to the computer, he cracked his knuckles and began typing. "Maybe someday I'll change my name... go nocturnal, like Bruce. Pity he's got a lock on the bat motif... 'Owlman' or 'Possum Boy' just doesn't have the same ring."

A large aeriel map of Gotham zoomed up on the Batcomputer screen. At the touch of a button, three sections of Gotham glowed red, and white lettering identified them as the NASHTON & DEWARD TOYS COMPANY WAREHOUSE, FORMER COMPETITRON TESTING OFFICES, and APARTMENT No. 898- OCCUPANT, MARK Q."

"I've decided to switch tactics," Robin explained, stifling a yawn. "I'm looking for Riddler first. The Nashton & DeWard Toys Company- well, I don't think it ever existed, but it has a big warehouse near the docks. Then there's the old Competitron testing office. Nigma used to work there, and they had a mock-up maze in the basement for designing the amusement park. Wayne Industries didn't get the offices in the buyout- they were purchased by an anonymous collector. And last of all... an apartment across town, near the Iceberg. Rented to a Mark Q.- and if that's not fishy, I don't know what is. Plus, Commissioner Gordon got a call about a Riddler sighting in the building just a week ago. Turned out to be a false alarm, but it's not exactly difficult to duck out on a cursory police search. And I figure if I find Nigma, I'll find Scarecrow, or at least be able to set up a trap for him."

"Well done. But what of Poison Ivy and the Mad Hatter?" Alfred inquired.

"Eh... well, you know Ivy," said Robin. "There was another company- Meridian or something- pulling off slash-and-burns alongside Aster. She'll probably be targeting their CEO next, but he's in Metropolis on business and won't be back 'til next week. With any luck, Poison Ivy will lie low until then... and Bruce will be back in action by then." He spoke quickly, running over the words with an uncertain certainty. "Now the Mad Hatter... he's definitely the wild card. I've checked on Alice Pleasance- actually, Alice Liddell now."

"Married?"

"You got it. Made it official over three months ago." Robin's fingers ran dexterously over the keyboard, and the screen was occupied by a photograph of a handsome, dark-haired youth in a tuxedo holding the gloved hand of a beautiful blonde girl in wedding white. "Mr. and Mrs. Bill Liddell."

"They look very happy together," Alfred commented.

"Let's hope it stays that way. According to the doctors at Arkham, Jervis Tetch's obsession with Wonderland extends to Alice, meaning he might react violently. But they also say he's moved on... more of an ideal than a person..." Dick stifled a yawn. "That's still up in the air. Now Jonathan Crane..."

"Can wait until you've had a good night's sleep," interrupted Alfred. "You'll excuse my saying, sir, that growing boys need their rest."

"Alfred..." Dick scowled. "I can't just let them-"

"Sorry, sir. I've heard that one far too often, and despite all you may have learned from Jack Bauer, sleep deprivation does not enhance one's detective abilities. Now, will you go to bed quietly, or must I fetch the Robo-bat?"

Dick opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the shrill ringing of the red telephone. He smiled and reached for the receiver.

"Sorry, Alfred. Gotta take this call.- Hello, Batcave. What? He's, uh, not here at the moment. No, I don't know when he'll be back. You know how he is. Uh-huh. What? You're kidding, right? Be right over." Dick flipped the receiver back on its base. Pulling his mask back over his eyes, he stood up and smiled at Alfred. "That was Commissioner Gordon. The Scarecrow just started a panic at the Iceberg Lounge. Looks like Crane can't wait 'til morning."

Alfred merely shook his head as he watched Dick head for the hangar.

"That's the closest either of them have gotten to saying 'I told you so,'" he commented.

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge was in a state of absolute panic by the time Robin arrived. Terrified patrons screamed, wept, fled, flailed, scratched, and even bit at each other in blind terror. Two of te Penguin's smartly-dressed waitstaff rushed past Robin, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Robin sighed and reached for his gas mask.

"My keen detective skills tell me that this is the work of... the Scarecrow," he quipped. "Now, to apprehend-"

"Robin! Thank goodness you've arrived!"

Oswald Cobblepot rushed up, mopping his brow with a satin handkerchief and carrying a tank of oxygen in his left hand. Despite the clear mask covering his mouth and nose, the Penguin shuddered and shook, and his dark eyes kept darting towards the shadows.

"It's Scarecrow," Cobblepot said. "That foul fiend has destroyed my domicile!"

"You're breaking my heart," Robin said sarcastically. "Where'd Scarecrow go?"

"Er- ah- I_ refuse_ to be treated-" Penguin began indignantly; then, as Robin turned away, "He ran out the back. I can show you the way."

A few minutes later, Robin stood in the back doorway and stared out into the empty night. The stiff night wind rippled through the long white curtains and began to dissipate the thick smog of fear toxin. Somewhere out in Gotham, police sirens began to wail. Robin sighed and stepped outside. Scarecrow was probably long gone, and he would have to-

THWACK.

Something hard and wooden struck Robin's shoulder, sending him careening backwards into the marble balcony rail. Groaning, he looked up- and saw the Master of Fear himself crouching in the shadows of the door and clutching what appeared to be a wooden walking stick.

**"What's the matter, Robin?" **Scarecrow rasped. **"Not... _scared, _I hope?"**

"You've got nothing to fear," retorted Robin, reaching for a Batarang. "If I were scared- and I'm _not- _it certainly wouldn't be because of anything _you _could do."

Scarecrow's stitched face contorted with fury, and he charged forward, swinging the walking stick...

...which was, in fact, a short-handled scythe. Robin tossed the Batarang, but Scarecrow whipped the scythe around, and there was a clash of metal on metal as the Batarang met the blade. Scarecrow laughed harshly and raised the scythe over his head like some skeletal executioner. Robin sprang forward and sent Scarecrow flying with a hard kick to the chest. They landed together, with Scarecrow on the bottom.

"It's over, Scarecrow!" Robin shouted, reaching for the villain's bony wrists.

**"You should have stayed out of this, little bird," **hissed Scarecrow. **"Were it not for your... unfortunate... interference, only Edward Nigma would have suffered my wrath."**

"Please, spare me the speech," Robin groaned. "Where is Nigma?"

**"Is John Smith within? Ay, that he is-"**

Robin rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Crane, I just want to know-"

THUNK. Something hit the back of Robin's head, and he wavered upright for a moment before falling over heavily.

"Hey mister, can I give you a hand?"

Scarecrow looked up, slightly bemused. A beautiful, well-formed woman in a black chauffeur's uniform, short skirt, and high, stiletto-heeled boots stood over him, twirling a baton in one hand. He frowned, trying to place her. Not Harley, not Ivy... perhaps it was one of Baby Doll's henchwomen.

Then, a smooth-faced, tan-skinned, bald man in a sharply cut suit stepped outside. Scarecrow had never seen him before, but Dr. Jonathan Crane regularly read the newspapers provided in Arkham- including the _Daily Planet._

"Lex Luthor," he rasped. **"Whither do you wander?"**

If the quote unnerved Luthor, he didn't show it.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane," he replied in a resonant baritone. "I've heard of you before, in Metropolis."

"As have I," Crane returned. "But, if you'll forgive me asking... why aren't you screaming in **_feeaarrr?"_**

"An excellent question," Luthor returned. "But as I said... I've heard of you before."

Scarecrow cocked his head, his interest piqued. Before he could ask further questions, however, Luthor spoke.

"I understand you're looking for a Mr. Nigma."

**"Yesssss..." **Scarecrow's eyes flashed, and his gloved hands curled into burlap fists.

A half-smirk briefly played across Luthor's face. Calmly, deliberately, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, cardboard rectangle.

"Through... unusual... circumstances, I have here the current address of one E. Nigma," he said.

Scarecrow's eyes narrowed, and he drew in a long, eager, hissing breath through his teeth.

**"What do you want for it?" **he rasped.

Luthor smiled coldly.

"What will you give me?"

* * *

_I've checked on Alice Pleasance- actually, Alice Liddell now. _A nod to Lewis Carroll's classic work, which was written for Alice Pleasance Liddell.


	17. Such Sweet Partings

Robin groaned and opened his eyes. _Not again. _

"Did someone get the number of that truck?" he asked, sitting up slowly and reaching back to touch a throbbing goose egg on the back of his skull. He half-expected Batman to make some stoic reply...

"So you're the Boy Wonder," a deep baritone said.

Robin squinted up at the light pouring out of the shattered windows behind him. A tall, impeccably dressed man with a vaguely handsome face was bending over him, handing him- Robin couldn't help but smile at the irony- an icepack.

"Thanks," he said, accepting the pack. "And yes, I'm... wait a minute, I know you. You're Lex Luthor, from Metropolis!"

Luthor fell back, a slight smirk playing about his mouth.

"Glad to know my name gets around," he said. "If you're looking for Jonathan Crane, I'm afraid you're too late. He ran off a few seconds after he knocked you out."

Robin colored slightly.

"Eh, well, you win some, you lose some," he shrugged. "What about Nigma- I mean, the Riddler? You didn't happen to see him run by?"

"I'm sorry to say I did not," Luthor said smoothly. "But where is your black-clad companion? I half expected to have seen him already by now..."

"What is it with you guys?" Robin snapped irritably. "Seriously! I'm working alone for a few weeks, okay?"

"By choice?"

Robin glared at the businessman.

"Yes. Not that it concerns you. I've heard about you... I know your reputation from Metropolis. We do things differently in Gotham. Make trouble, and you can be sure I'll drop by for a visit."

"Come, come, _boy." _Luthor's voice dripped disdain. "Do you really think threats of physical violence-"

"Just a friendly warning, Luthor," Robin retorted. "Who said anything about threats?"

And with that, he turned his back to the businessman, fired his grappling gun into the nearest building, and swung effortlessly off into the night. A caravan of police cars was headed for the Iceberg, and he had- he _had- _to find the Scarecrow. Robin ground his teeth together. Darn it all, he wasn't the detective- he'd never pretended to be. But letting Scarecrow get the drop on him not once, but _twice _within the same twenty-four hours... it was either carelessness or horrible luck. Either way, Batman would be disappointed and upset.

Unless, of course, Robin managed to haul the scrawny villain back to Arkham before anyone found out about his goof-up. Swinging easily onto the tiled roof of a nearby bakery, he was about to fire the grapple again when he heard something.

Someone was screaming.

* * *

The Gotham night was alive with insects. They swarmed overhead in vast, roiling clouds, seething and teeming, filling the air with loud, angry buzzing. Edward Nigma ran faster than he had ever run before. One hand clapped over his mouth, he tried to ignore the unbearable sensation of thousands of tiny legs scratching, running, squirming, scuttling over his bare skin. A grotesquely large beetle buzzed in front of his face, and the Riddler shrieked and flailed at it wildly with his cane. The insects were everywhere. Behind him, something large and dark and umistakably bat-shaped was flying in pursuit, eyes glowing with that unearthly light.

"Nigma," the Batman growled. "What has six legs, four wings, weighs nearly a pound, and flies?"

Nigma tried to answer, but the insects swarmed against his mouth, and he closed it with a snap. He didn't know what to say, anyway... he didn't know! The mastermind sucked in breath through his nose and tried not to panic.

"Come on, Nigma," came a taunting call from Batman. "It's an easy riddle!" And his voice began to change, becoming higher and more nasally and- "If you're so smart, why aren't you rich?"

Nigma glanced over his shoulder and saw, to his supreme horror, that he was now being pursued by Daniel Mockridge.

"C'mon, _Eddie boy," _the corporate shark sneered, twirling a silver-handled cane in one hand. "Even _I _know the answer to that one! What? Can't even guess?" And he threw back his head and began to laugh.

"Nooooo!" Nigma howled, covering his ears with both hands. "I don't knoooooow!"

And suddenly, Robin appeared in front of him, his face plastered with a gloating grin.

"All right, _Nigma," _he sneered. "I know you're not going to like this, but I'm going to help you."

Nigma screamed and turned away as termites poured out of Robin's mouth. The speech was a riddle of some kind, he knew it was, but he couldn't even comprehend the question being asked. And then the vigilante was on top of him, clawing at him with insect-covered hands, and Nigma's screams rose to fever pitch.

"Hold still!" Robin grunted, wriggling white larvae spilling from his lips. "This will help you!"

There was a sting in his arm and Nigma could feel tiny bodies burrowing into his flesh. He screamed and clawed at himself, dislodging something hard and bony- a carapace, he'd beaten off a giant beetle, he'd beaten it off...

Nigma's vision slowly cleared, his screams faded into gasps and sobs, and he found himself lying flat on his stomach with his hands secured behind him and something heavy pressing on his spine.

"Finally," a familiar, and much-loathed, voice said. "I thought you'd never quit screaming."

"Robin?" the Riddler gasped, his breath still ragged. "You... I..." his eyes narrowed, and his panicked expression morphed into a villainous smirk. "So how's Batman? Not with _you, _of course. Where, oh where could he be?"

The pressure in his back increased.

"That doesn't concern you, Nigma," Robin snapped stiffly.

"Oh, but I think it _does," _the green-clad villain sneered. "Riddle me this, Robin! When is a bat _not _a bat?"

"I don't have time for this," the vigilante groaned, and Nigma felt him shift his weight slightly. If he had to guess, he'd say Robin was rubbing his forehead about now. The thought made him smile. "Nigma. I know you were in the Iceberg, and I know Scarecrow's after you."

"Really? So you do know something besides your own name?" Nigma couldn't resist taunting the boy. "I am impressed!"

That earned him a dig in the ribs from Robin's heels.

"Look, Nigma, we can do this the easy way or the hard way," Robin snapped. "Where is Jonathan Crane?"

Nigma sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. There had been... _something _in Robin's voice, a certain darker tone than he'd heard before, something that might pass for intelligence. But then the Boy Blunder had to go and ruin it all with a stupid question.

"Really, Robin," he said condescendingly, "surely you can't think I noticed where he went? I was minding my own business when that- that _tattybogle _jumped out from behind a pillar and gassed me. Perhaps you're unfamiliar with the effects of fear toxin. The victim, you see, begins to hallucinate his worst-"

"I know what it does!" snapped Robin.

There was a long silence, and Nigma smiled. He had stymied the vigilante. Wonderful. Then, to his surprise, Robin removed his knee from Nigma's spine and stood up, pulling the cerebral villain up by his collar. Nigma blinked in bewilderment as Robin unsnapped the cuffs from around his wrist and shoved him away lightly.

"You're letting me go?" he asked.

"That's right," Robin replied.

"But... why?"

Robin smiled and reached for his grapple.

"You're the Riddler," he replied. "You tell me."

Edward Nigma gaped as Robin shot his grappling rope at the nearest building and was pulled away into the darkness. He rubbed his wrists, breathed in a long, deep sigh of fresh air, and reached for his cane and bowler hat.

"Question," he muttered to himself. "Why does a hero let a villain get away? Now _that's_ a riddle worth solving..."

* * *

BAM. The cheap wooden door flew open so hard Poison Ivy knew it had to leave a dent in the wall, and a cloud of smog rolled into the room. Immediately, Ivy's men began to cough and choke, and the Mad Hatter quietly buried his nose and mouth in a handkerchief. Poison Ivy rolled her eyes.

"Crane..."

**"There is no Crane."**

As the fog dissipated, a gaunt, burlap-clad figure strode triumphantly into the room, straw falling from his hands.

**"Only _Scarecrow!"_**

The straw man cackled, his thin frame shaking with villainous glee, and bent down to one of the felled thugs. Poison Ivy had had enough. She crossed the room in two quick strides and slapped Scarecrow across the face.

"Cut it out, Crane!" she snapped. "Those are my henchmen, and I don't appreciate it when they get knocked around without reason!"

Scarecrow fell back against the wall, rubbing his face and glaring at Ivy. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow pointedly. Crane was having another one of his "episodes," the ones that usually ended with him being dragged away to solitary in Arkham. Either he would snap out of it, or Ivy would save them both a lot of time and trouble and knock him out. She did not have time to deal with this at the moment.

"What was that for?" Crane asked after a long moment of murderous glaring.

"Oh, I don't know," Poison Ivy replied sarcastically. "Nearly breaking the hinges off my door, gassing my minions, barging into a climate-controlled room when I'm working on cultivating my beautiful little mimic flowers?"

Crane closed his eyes for a moment and put a hand to his head.

**"I... **never mind..." He reopened his eyes, shot a quick glance at Jervis, and took a step towards the door. "I found Nigma... and Luthor..." his voice was fading, morphing back into a dark rasp. **"I will find him again. And again... and again..." **he chuckled darkly, his eyes wandering to the ceiling. **"Hey goosey gander, whither do you wander?"**

"You're not leaving?" Jervis asked, sounding mildly alarmed. "Take some more tea!"

**"Come with me," **replied Scarecrow. **"Come, follow, follow, follow... follow, follow, follow me!"**

"But I can't," Tetch said simply. "I haven't got my hat."

Scarecrow's eyes narrowed, and he turned his back sharply on the two.

**"Fine," **he hissed. **"Certainly I repaid our debt, _Ivy?"_**

The beautiful plant mistress raised her eyebrows.

"'Our' debt?" she repeated.

**"_My _debt," **Scarecrow rasped. **"Very good. I shall return to my work... and a cry shall go up from the land, such as was never heard before nor shall be again..." **he chuckled darkly. **"I hear Halloween is coming early this year."**

With that, the gaunt villain strode out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Poison Ivy exhaled slowly and shook her head. She never knew what to make of Crane during these times... but, then again, as long as he refrained from harming any poor, beautiful plants in his scheming, she really had no reason to worry about him.

"Well, Tetch?" she said, turning back to the Hatter. "Can you repair it?"

"Oh yes..." the Hatter murmured, still looking at the door. "It's my own invention, you see..."

* * *

There's no precedence for Nigma's insectophobia, but it was a heck of a lot more fun to write than a "can't solve the riddle" hallucination.

Thanks to everyone who reviews!


	18. A Deal You Can't Refuse

"Ah... aha..."

Edward Nigma snatched off his bowler hat and ran a finger inside the brim experimentally. Nothing. With a shrug, he threw it onto the pile of green clothing steadily growing on his apartment table.

"Riddle me this," he said to no one in particular. "Why does a hero let a villain get away? Answer: When said villain can be used to lure another in. Two birds with one stone." He pulled off a white, purple-question-mark adorned sock and examined it suspiciously. "And when the villain never gets away at all."

And then his eyes lit up and he shook his head, smirking.

"You're no Batman, kid. A child could have found it."

There, in the next-to-last piece of clothing still on Edward Nigma's body, was the tiny, bat-shaped transmitter he had been looking for. The Riddler carefully picked the transmitter off his trouser crease and dropped it on the floor.

"Do you hear that, Robin?" he said loudly. "You failed. Did you really think you could outsmart the Riddler?" He chuckled and turned away, feeling enormously satisfied with himself. "But do drop me a line when Batman reappears... I'm really beginning to miss a serious challenge."

Having taken off his shoes, the Riddler could not grind the transmitter to dust beneath his heel as he planned; he settled for picking up one of his loafers and destroying the electronic bug with a few hearty whacks.

"Idiot," he said under his breath.

* * *

"Did you really think you could outsmart the Riddler?"

The voice filtered into the Batcave, tinny and slightly scratchy. Alfred raised an eyebrow as he set a cup of strong coffee down next to Dick Grayson. Dick, still in his Robin outfit, shook his head.

"I'm going to bed..." he said. "Just a... just a minute..."

"Do you hear that, Robin?" Nigma's smug voice crackled loudly. "You failed. Did you really think you could outsmart the Riddler? But do drop me a line when Batman reappears... I'm really beginning to miss a serious challenge."

This was followed by several bursts of static and the sound of something cracking.

"Oh dear," Alfred said.

Dick smiled.

"Wait for it..."

_"Idiot."_

The voice was much quieter than before, a bit fuzzier, not quite as distinct, but most definitely the Riddler's. Alfred blinked in surprise.

"I say, sir... did you plant an indestructible transmitter on the Riddler?"

Dick grinned and leaned back in his chair, placing his arms behind his head.

"Nope," he said. "I just used a little bit of psychology."

"Oh?"

"Well, let's say you've been bugged, or you think you've been bugged. When do you stop looking for a transmitter?"

"Well, when you look and find nothing there," Alfred said.

"Or?"

Alfred's eyes widened.

"Or when you look and you _do _find a bug," he realized. "Jolly good, sir."

"And now," Dick announced, stretching. "I really am going to bed. Good night, Alfred."

Alfred raised an eyebrow as he watched the teenager head up the stairs towards the comforts of Wayne Manor.

"Don't you mean _good morning, _sir?" he called.

* * *

The Scarecrow was not happy. Despite having successfully restocked his toxin supply and having sent nearly a hundred of Gotham's most elite screaming in abject terror, he had failed in his most pressing objective: locating Edward Nigma. The self-proclaimed Master of Fear slumped over his lab countertop, turning Lex Luthor's business card over and over again.

Neither Crane nor Scarecrow trusted the well-spoken businessman from Metropolis. He was too slick, too sure of himself... but Scarecrow was curious to see what fears the man might have.

_Not yet. He knows where Nigma is... or says he does..._

Luthor's demands were fairly straightforward: a few corporate owners murdered, a few deliveries from certain corporations "interrupted"... The straw man placed his chin on a burlap-clad hand and stared at the card thoughtfully.

**_He'll try to double-cross us, you know..._**

_Of course. _Crane scratched his nose absent-mindedly. _So we've got to double-cross him first. _

Scarecrow smiled.

**_I like the way you think. _**And he promptly launched into a recitation of "Hot Cross Buns" as Jonathan reached for the telephone.

* * *

"...an interesting offer, Mr. Fox, but I one I can't accept at the moment," Lex Luthor said, steepling his fingers and staring coldly across the table at Lucius Fox. "I'm sure you understand."

Just then, to Luthor's great embarrassment, his cell phone began ringing.

"Excuse me," Luthor muttered, reaching for the electronic device and clenching his teeth at Fox's patronizing nod. "Hello. This is Luthor."

"Hello... Lex. I can call you _Lex, _can't I?"

Luthor froze for a second, then forced his body to relax. No sense in getting worked up and piquing Fox's curiosity.

"Of course. Have you considered my offer?"

"Oh yes. That's why I'm calling," the voice on the other end said, with a creepy chuckle. "I accept your proposal, Mr. Luthor, and will begin by targeting the Daily Planet distribution offices tomorrow morning. Of course, I expect full payment in advance."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," replied Luthor, coolly. "Forgive me, Dr. -ah- Jones, but I haven't seen what you can do yet. Until I have proof- but I'm sure you understand."

"Very well. I will contact you after the Daily Planet falls. And Luthor..." there was a long, dark laugh from the other party. "**_You had better be prepared to pay up."_**

The phone clicked loudly as Dr. Crane hung up, and Luthor glanced calmly at the phone before sliding it back into his pocket.

"Apologies, Mr. Fox. Another potential deal. Now, as you were saying...?"

* * *

"Are you sure it will work?" Poison Ivy asked for perhaps the fourth time. Jervis Tetch smiled, his head tilted sideways and blue eyes focused on nothing.

"Of course, my dear! Merely have these beautiful blossoms delivered to your intended, and..." he waved a white-gloved hand airily. "Down the rabbit hole! Down, down, down..." he trailed off, smiling to himself.

Ivy raised an eyebrow. Ever since Jervis Tetch had been re-united with his hat circuitry, he had been more and more prone to drifting, dreamily reciting long passages of Carroll before he said anything that made sense. However, he had upheld his end of the bargain, transforming the "special" cellar of the EarthAction building into a massive supercomputer headquarters. Using mostly parts lifted from Marty Slack's Computer Shack, and a few specialty pieces "borrowed" by Ivy's environmentalist cohorts, Tetch had filled the cellar with wires, monitors, and other... computer parts... which Poison Ivy could not identify. In return, Ivy had brought three troughs of rich soil into the cellar, run the top of the mother vine out a window well to twine up the EarthAction Headquarters, and watched with hostile scrutiny as Tetch cut her baby open and attached a long array of microelectrodes to the central phloem tube.

Poison Ivy had been brought tray after tray of daughter bulbs up from the cellar and placed them in the greenhouse while Jervis fine-tuned his virtual reality software. Now, all that remained was to double-check the apparatus and send a basket of flowers to someone.

"It won't hurt them, will it?" Poison Ivy asked.

"Hurt? Oh, no, Your Majesty!" Tetch replied, startled out of a reverie. "They'll merely be transported to a beautiful, beautiful dream... their subconscious overpowers the conscious mind and-"

"Not the _victims," _Poison Ivy said with an eye roll. "The plants!"

"Oh no, of course not," replied the Mad Hatter. "I can easily manipulate the victims' bodies- guide them back to this cellar, the blooms can reattach themselves to the mother plant..." he frowned. "We're going to need a bigger room."

Poison Ivy sent a massive vine shooting across the room with a wave of her hand. It vanished into the ground and began burrowing and digging.

"Done," she replied. "Now... who to send it to..."

"Oh, I have just the person," the Mad Hatter interjected. "A... test case, if you will." He smiled knowingly and tapped the side of his hat. "I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal..."

* * *

As always, reviews are much appreciated!


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